I wrote then that muggers had stripped me of my expensive grey suit and left me standing there in my jogger shorts. I only wanted to lessen the humiliation of being stripped naked. The real truth is that they left me in my underwear if that’s any comfort. If Clinton did it why can’t I also ‘did it’ too? Now don’t try to push your luck and dispute this version as well.
Anyway, you must have read how the police ‘meticulously’ recorded our statements while the muggers were gleefully adding to the toll outside. When the cops were through with us, a good two hours later, an ambulance was summoned to ship us to hospital. Even though my parents were there with the family car, we were advised that I had to get to the hospital in an ambulance to emphasise the urgency.
It was the first time that I had been on board an ambulance with lights flashing and sirens wailing. In a strange sort of way I knew how President Mugabe felt when riding his motorcade. In fact, all this cacophony wasn’t necessary at all if you ask me. If indeed we were emergency, we would have been dead by the time they collected us at the police station.
Nevertheless, we just had to enjoy the ride in a way that was ‘presidential’. I really looked forward to the reception at Mpilo hospital. Those of you who have been to this health facility in Zimbabwe’s second city will know that Mpilo, which means life in the local SiNdebele language, is a misnomer. People came to this place to die and I was to find out how.
When we arrived we were unceremoniously dumped at the casualty section. Yes I said dumped because no one paid attention to us because, as we soon found out, we were walking. The impression I got was that as long as there wasn’t any sign of cardiac arrest or some such serious condition you could as well walk out the same way you came in. I guess I had been watching too much of ER on television.
The casualty section resembled a war zone. People with stab wounds, swollen faces and broken limbs littered the floor. The receptionist who was obviously overworked paid little attention to their cries. This is the time when you feel obliged to play the compassionate hero. What a big mistake. When I tried to highlight the plight of those who required urgent attention I promptly told not to jump the queue and wait my turn.
From then on I told myself that if I wanted to receive treatment I had to mind my own business. After what seemed like an eternity, my turn came. If there is anything that I appreciate about my government was the fact that health care at a public facility dirt cheap. When I was told how much I had to cough up I could not help laughing. Regrettably no one else caught the joke and that reduced my marks with the receptionist by several notches more. Somehow I felt this was going to be a long night.
As we were shunted towards the treatment area I noticed that there was no sense of urgency among the staff. It was like if you dropped dead before receiving potentially lifesaving treatment it would be God’s will. In between the countless tea breaks (I must admit that it was a bit chilly) I calculated that they took care of one patient every 45 minutes. It would take the whole night to clear our lot and they here they don’t call you a ‘patient’ for nothing.
When my turn came, I really worked at being nice. The nurse who looked me over was the kind that would have been a prison warder if she had a second choice at employment. To say that she was rough is in itself the understatement of the millennium. She yanked the temporary bandage from my face so hard I just had to yell.
“Who stabbed you?” came out of that woman’s orifice in a way that did not require a response. It was later that I surmised that she was referring to the piercing scream I let out rather than my gaping injury. What cheek! I would have been mugged for the second time that night had I tried to be funny. So I kept mine shut.
The ‘prison warder’ examined my injuries much the same way a mechanic would a second hand car, cursory and without much care. The prognosis was that the gash on my forehead required stitching and the ones at the side and back of the head were not that deep. The problem was that the doctor on call was nowhere to be found. Remember that this was way before the mobile phone.
So I just had to be the patient that I was. As luck would have it, the doctor was spotted around the canteen area and an orderly bolted out to fetch him. It was the first sign of urgency I had witnessed that night. When he got in I immediately knew why he was at the canteen. To buy dilution (a mixer) because smelt like a brewery. Yes I used to get drunk like a skunk but I can tell you that no one relishes having to spend the best of an hour directly in the line of fire of puff the brandy dragon.
I have to hand it to these doctors for being able to undertake such a delicate operation while in a stupor. They must have given me a shot for local anaesthesia but I felt every piercing of the needle since I was terrified this guy would sew my mouth shut by mistake. There have been stories of doctors doing crazy things during operations so I had to be wide awake to make sure nothing of the sort happened to me.
By the time the procedure was done I am sure I must have staggered from the operating table stone drunk. One sensation I remember quite vividly though was having lost all feeling from neck upwards. I briefly entertained the thought that the doctor could have removed my head completely. Judging by what I felt in subsequent weeks I wished that he had.
As I recuperated at home, an outpatient counting my blessings that I had come out of Mpilo alive, my head ballooned to about twice its size. Sure I have a naturally big head but this was something else. I looked in the mirror and I could not recognise myself. My mother who is a former nurse assured me that it was expected. When my colleagues saw me for the first time they broke down. It was as if I had been hit by a train.
However looking back I must mention that the guys at Mpilo did their best under very trying conditions. After all they are human. In fact they were heroes. With a bit of understanding and tender loving care it could have been better. As for me, I can boast that I know what a football really feels like when its pumped up and kicked around, well sort of.
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