It was early morning, the time when shadows are elongated and shapeless. As we moved toward the market place, I began to smell carbolic acid. The whole marketplace, reeked of urine and rotting vegetables from one street to the next. Meanwhile, flies were dancing and buzzing over heaps of rubbish, enjoying the feast of rotting starch, carbohydrates and protein. My daughter, Maidei looked at me with disgust as if she had swallowed a rotten apple and like I was to blame for the whole mess.
Behind one of the rubbish heaps, an old haggard woman was trying to salvage some food thrown away from the previous day. I saw two or three dogs on the same mission as the old woman. She gave us a look that could melt away the ice glaciers in the Antarctica. Her sunken cheeks told a sad story of days and nights without food. She reminded me of a homeless cat that I used to see behind Zororo Bar. It looked wise, lonely and starved.
Ahead of us at the intersection, I saw a police car drive past a group of bald headed men in white robes. They belonged to one of the white garment churches that had mushroomed everywhere around the country in recent years. They were likely coming from a night virgil.
I had to hold back each time to allow my daughter, Maidei to catch up with me. She was not feeling well and I was taking her to Rujeko Clinic for treatment.
As we left the marketplace behind us, the smell of carbolic acid became less and less and we met many people rushing for work. I saw many commuter ominibuses, being driven dangerously up and down the pot-holed streets, clamoring for passengers. The familiar sight of conductors as they hung perilously by the door of the speeding mini-buses will forever haunt me and likewise, other people. Some of them hung limply at the back of the speeding mini-bus, dicing with death.
The smell of disinfectants hit our nostrils as soon as we entered the clinic. We joined a long queue of patients with some of them looking hopeless. On the other side, women with babies strapped on their backs had their own queue. Some of the infants were hollering, afraid of getting an injection, adding to the confusion. I saw two or three nurses who looked harassed enough, heading for the children’s ward. Our queue was at a standstill. We were supposed to pay for our clinic card before we proceeded to the ward to get treatment for my daughter. There was no one to serve us and the queue grew a long tail behind us. It was a hopeless situation, some patients sat on the floor as they did not have enough strength to stand in the queue. Some of the patients were leaning against the walls, looking desperate.
After what seemed a long time, but was actually some twenty minutes or so, the queue started to move. The air was heavy with the scent of antiseptic, mingling with the faint odor of illness.
My daughter Maidei, clung to me, I felt for her temperature, she had a fever. I was filled with anxiety. For how long was it going to take to get her treated?
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Behind me , I saw Baba Muza, he was in his sixties, a pensioner. Several times I saw him clutch his chest, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and just in front of us was a young teenager. He must have been suffering from some allergic reaction. His face was swollen and he had black blisters on his face and arms.
It was quiet obvious to me that the clinic was understaffed. I felt pity for the doctor who had to attend to the growing line of patients.
The dire situation in the clinic made me sick. I could not afford medical aid, otherwise I would not be in the clinic with my sick daughter. I saw some patients exchanging glances, waiting for treatment.
They had hope for a return to good health despite the poor service in the clinic. I don’t know why it came to my mind at that particular moment, but only last week , esteemed Members of Parliament had received top of the range vehicles to make their work easy in their constituencies. And only the other day, more than fifty officials had accompanied seven athletes to the Paris Olympics!
Onie Ndoro X@Onie90396982
