President of The Republic of Kenya
P.O Box: 40530- 00100,
Dear President Uhuru Kenyatta,
“he left my right hand clavicle terribly fructured.”
I could hear the voices from a distant. Almost like someone was calling my name from one end of a tunnel and all I could hear was his echo. I was in some kind of deep sleep and so I actually thought I was having a bizarre dream.
It didn’t take long before I could feel the stretcher moving down the hallway.
“Move!, excuse us a bit. We’ve got to trasfer her to the bed.” Said the nurse to the people who had been anxiously waiting for me at the Ward – It must have been that handsome nurse that had led me to the operation room earlier. Jesus! He was quite a charmer. His striking stature nearly made me forget I was headed for the scalpel. “Goodness gracious!” I thought. “Am headed for dissection.” Some person that has revised science inside out, is going to cut open my shoulder in a few, like we used to mercilessly do to insects during biology practicals. And here I am thinking about how enchanting this man walking centimeters from me is.”
Did I get off the targent? Sorry Sir, lemmi pick you up from where I lost you. So the two nurses finally moved me from the stretcher onto the bed like they do in movies. By this time I was already 80% awake. I could make out voices. “Jenny wake up and talk to your people.” Said the nurse. I tried opening my eyes but they felt too heavy in there, the lips and the tongue too. Then came the pain, the unbearable kind. The kind of pain that makes it difficult for tears to make their way out. This, for me was the most painful moment of my life. If you thought heartbreak was painful, try breaking a bone, then have it fixed with a knife. That’s besides my point anyway.
About two hours before this, I’d walked myself to the operation room. Laid on that board-like bed under that scarely light-head that looks like it can see right through the skin. That was when I forgot all about the handsome skin that was now injecting anaesthetic into my vein and “sorry…sorry…” were the last words I heard.
Mr President, the last three weeks have been for me what we call ‘storage’ like the sacks of maize under NCPB. I have had to just sit, eat, sleep. Because my right hand is temporarily incapacitated. As at now, you and I have a thing in common, ‘the left hand‘ the only difference is that mine is a lazy one. My days have become long and nights even longer. It feels like a year has been snatched off my hands. My hustle has had to come to a stand still. Stagnation is the word am looking for here. But why? Mine is a case of a ‘man eat man society’. Mine is a case of robbery with violence. Mine is a case of a Mismanaged Sector of Public Transport where motorcycles (bodabodas) fall into the hands of the wrong guys, the unlicensed, lazy-asses, underage, irresponsible, thieves….name them. And by the way, it’s a thing that has become a norm and there seem to be no lasting solution within the locals.
Mine is a case of National Insecurity in general, which I believe was in your agenda. Well, this is to ask you, “What are you doing Kijana? What will you do in cases like this? What is your Administration planning?
Mine is a tragedy that caught me unprepared in the morning of 7th November. One atrocious bodaboda rider who hard-heartedly took off with my purse leaving me at the mercies of passers-by, with a broken shoulder.
“I felt the hand on my shoulder. My first instinct was that this could be some douchebag pulling a damned prank on me. My quick reaction was to hold tight my bag. Unfornately for me, and fortunately for him, he had it held tighter. Pulling it forward while accelerating, resulted to the force that led me to the tarmac. (This is an incident that never leaves my head. To me it’s like it happened yesterday and the fear is ingrained, maybe permanently.) I can hardly explain clearly how everything happened. Yani, it doesn’t add up in all possible imaginations.
At first, I had turned down the suggestion of rushing to a doctor. I thought it was just a fall and that the pain would ease. Lo! It got to that point where hospital was no longer an option but the only option. Things got even worse immediately I saw the doctor’s expresssion on seeing my shoulder. I knew the situation was more critical than I thought in the beginning.
“Jeniffer come with me,” she said leading me to a room behind her office. She administered an injection that she explained was a painkiller. She then handed me a form referring me to the X-Ray Room. I followed. The man I met there looked at me with a lot of sympathy while asking me how old I was. “What’s wrong doctor? How bad is it?” “Wanjiku your clavicle is badly broken.” He said. “What are my options doc?” “You’ve only got one, surgery. The clavicle can only be fixed through operation. Don’t worry much though, you’ll get through it, people do…” My blood shot, my heart was in my mouth. “Surgery?” “Yes.”
He held my hand and led me to a seat outside this room. My thoughts were out of place at this moment….
Well, yes, mine is temporary damage. Mine is a matter of time, probably a few months. Mine is no big a deal. But Sir, am in distress for he whose day could be far much worse. For he who might fall in the hands of a far much ‘insane’ savage, leading him/her to permanent damage. An irreversible damage.
Mr President, I am Wanjiku, both metaphorically and literally. I am a voter who vouched and voted for Tano Tena because I was a sucker for your Agenda. It is my desire that you prove to me that I was not literally a sucker for believing in you. For that Sir, remember your committment.