Water Please!!!

Equinox casually saunters into my neighborhood on a fine Saturday morning wearing a bathing suit and those fake ray ban sunglasses I see advertised on Facebook, being the good person that I am, I offer it a seat and we immediately strike a not so good convo. The good oll’ K.P.L.C on the other hand feels rejected and a bit sidelined so it decides that it’s the most appropriate time to cut me from the power grid, so that means no A.C or any such thing that provides cooling. The two individuals engage in a superiority battle and it’s at that point when a stroke of genius comes calling; I discover that I have been having a tummy ache for the past week and decide to pay the doctor a visit.

The pilgrim journey to the hospital is one filled with three angry and ferociously blazing suns that leave no part of my body untouched by their hot unromantic rays. I unceremoniously appear at the hospitals reception stinking like a stagnant lake of perspiration that given the time and chance I would freely donate my body to medicine students as a cadaver save for my very expensive ‘camera’ dress bought in the deep seated and cube like stalls of Kongowea market and some two hundred shilling heels I bought at night pale Ngara during the pre-colonial period that have changed color from white to a shade of brown after one wash.

In to the doctors I go without farther ado. Doctor Kinuthia is a fine young man probably in his late twenties with a properly contoured chest, clean shaven, well-manicured nails and a baritone voice that has a slight influence of his mother tongue.  Had he not attended medical school he would have used it to woe young girls somewhere in the heart of Kirinyaga County. His baritone voice is smooth and just as pleasant as a new boxer motorbike; enough to send you into emotional overdrive. He goes ahead to use his hand to perform some tummy squishing magic and am relieved when he rules out  pregnancy( how could I be pregnant when the last time a specie from the opposition last talked to me decades ago. It’s good to be positive sometimes though.) He however sends me to the lab for tests to rule out any infections.

The lab hand I find is not as interesting as the doctor and I can’t wait to be over and done so I can go back to Doctor Kinuthia; my new found love. She requests for two things, my blood sample and that number two thing. I look at her dazed and wonder what could be wrong with her. Could she be conspiring with that nurse who looked angrily at me so as to defame me? Had she noticed my crush on doctor Kinuthia? Why had she not asked for a pee sample instead? Anywho, being a member of comrade power, I know better than to hold banners and placards to protest against the said instructions.  So I stretch my arm and the precious red fluid is sucked into a one litre syringe and then grab the biohazard container for sample number two.

Distance and vectors become applicable when I strategically position myself several footsteps from the loo with the task at hand a bit uncomfortable and almost impossible. Why are these doctors so interested in my poop? Murderous thoughts run through my mind. I could kill someone with a zip lock bag and stuff their mouth with the bio hazard container and break out to freedom; just like that. Nothing attempts to come calling. So I continue sitting there, 10 minutes, twenty minutes, nothing. I have attempted all avenues of producing anything for the doctors’ diagnosis. So I continue sitting. The white washed walls tell a story I can’t really understand so I find comfort on the soundless telly placed somewhere on the high wall, complete with a metal cage and a padlock. Who is interested in stealing a 12 inch TV that has seen worse days than kizza Besigye?

So I continue sitting on that seat, that very seat and watch with a tear stained face as other patients come and go. The pharmacist keeps stealing glances at me with suspicion etched on his roundish face, probably thinking of the extent to which I doubt his manliness (which I was actually doubting) and the big black bag strapped on my shoulders didn’t make the matter any better. Everyone is cautious these days you know. At first I also stare at him with contempt, and then remember there is another person close to me who has also over sat in that waiting lounge and a wicked smile spreads across my constricting and contracting visage.

Everything goes blank when I finally feel that solid mass descending my large intestines; I get excited about it, invite me, myself and I to a celebratory party and forcefully inhale to give it momentum, fast landing. It gets to the rectum and I’m satisfied with the results. So I rush to the loo to download and obtain the long awaited, master of ceremony sample. Real happiness I have there for a while.

I complete my business, use lots of tissue and stuff some in my bag happily as a pledge of allegiance to the Kenyan ladies tissue grabbing association. Who doesn’t love free tissue anyway? I hear shuffling of feet and decided to hurry up and give room to the next patient whom I wish has the same problem. My gorgeous hands reach for the cisterns flash and nothing comes out; no water. I’m left between a rock and a hard place, how do I exit the loo? What will the next person on the queue think when they find my excreta that smells like 100 rotten diapers mixed with 44volts acid from a car battery? Believe me when I say Satan is no small boy.

May the mighty warriors of Israel who released the ten plagues on the Egyptians release their wrath on every infidel who conspired in terminating the water supply to the loo.