The nursing sisters had called him Maputo when they handed him over to me, and I hadn’t got an opportunity to check his real name. A stab chest had come in at the same time, and I needed a signature for putting in a chest drain for my Health Professionals Council of South Africa log book, so I’d rushed across to assist with that patient. I hadn’t forgotten about Maputo, and I knew that sorting him out would take much of the night, so I wanted to get the chest drain out of the way first. But by the time I got back to him, one of the medical students had already put up a line and tried to call Imhotep to see if there was an ICU bed, but reported that there wasn’t one. So I prescribed antibiotics and analgesia and handed him over to the surgical team. And it wasn’t Brufen. I wouldn’t have given him Brufen, I’m not an idiot. Maybe I should have called Imhotep myself. Maybe I should have sat on the phone and tried Hamilton Naki, Mary Malahlela Central Hospital, the White House! Maybe I could have handled the case better. I didn’t think of a central venous pressure line and I’m pretty sure he had a catheter in already or the sisters put it in, but I remember seeing one. I should have checked his name though. I’m sure I did, because surely I wouldn’t have written Maputo on his medical notes. Or maybe his real name was Maputo. Foreigners often change their names when they arrive in South Africa. Gosh, I don’t know. Maybe I did mismanage him, but that wasn’t because he was foreign, and I won’t accept Nyasha’s accusation that I treated him badly because he was foreign. That’s bullshit. I take so much crap from the nursing staff and other doctors for being friends with her, from Ma for living with her. They call me a kwere-kwere lover behind my back, for goodness sake! So what she’s saying is absolute crap and I won’t accept it. Nyasha can go to hell.
Things are spiralling out of control. One of the Nigerian doctors was spat on by a patient yesterday. According to the other interns, the patient said she didn’t want to be examined by a cockroach. Many of the foreign doctors are now saying they don’t feel safe coming to work. And Nyasha is still not speaking to me over the whole burn patient thing.
It’s crazy, Lord. This is crazy. What have we become? I’ve resolved that I must do something to stop this. Or at least try.
I’m going to draw up a petition. I’ll print it and distribute it around the morning departmental meetings. I’ll get all the other interns to sign it too, deliver it to the doctors’ quarters, put it under everybody’s doors. I’ll stick it up at the blood bank and in the lab so that students coming to fetch results can sign it while they wait. Maybe even at the security gate. As people sign themselves in they could simultaneously sign the petition, too. I could even walk around the cafeteria at lunch times, table to table, and ask people to sign. I could leave it in the anaesthetists’ tea room so they could sign it between cases. Maybe even in the Emergency Department, as people wait, I could ask families of patients to sign it too. And if the CEO of the hospital signs it, and the senior leadership, maybe I could even write to the local newspaper. Maybe it could make it to the Minister of Health and the minister could sign it. Maybe I could even get in touch with other interns on the Intern Facebook page and ask them to circulate it to other hospitals. Maybe eventually it could become a country-wide thing for the whole nation to sign. Then the world will see that this isn’t who we are, and that those thugs out there going around killing foreigners don’t represent the majority of us. Maybe this petition will bring this madness to an end.
But I won’t tell Nyasha. I want to do this all by myself. I want to surprise her. Then she will see just how much I love her, just how different I am, just how much I care.
Oh my gosh, Lord, I myself cannot believe how many people have signed the petition. It’s had 3000 Shares on Facebook and 10 000 Likes. I had a call this morning from a lady from SAFM who wants to interview me about what we’re doing. I also got a mention in the Mail & Guardian Online and the journalist at the end of the article challenged doctors around the country to do the same and stand up to xenophobia.
Lord, it’s so strange, You know. I always knew You were going to use me for something important, but I couldn’t have guessed it would be this. It really feels great to be at the forefront of something good. I can’t remember the last time I achieved something single-handedly. I’m finally coming into my own. The Mail & Guardian described me as a young activist, an inspiration. I’ve never thought of myself as an activist, as inspiring to anyone, but there it all was, and they said it, not me.
I made the mistake of telling Sister Palesa about the article and the potential radio interview, and that the success of the petition had got me thinking about organising an anti-xenophobia march in the community. Instead of congratulating me on the success of the initiative, she showered me with criticism. I was going to land myself in trouble, she said. This wasn’t the suburbs. People here are really suffering, she said, and foreigners are largely to blame.
‘People can’t feed their families, doctor. These foreigners are eating everything. If it’s not the Nigerians, it’s the Somalis. If it’s not the Somalis, it’s the Chinese. Enough with this petition nonsense now, or you’re really going to irritate people and get yourself hurt. Focus on your work. People around here don’t like it when children don’t know how to behave.’
When I got home this afternoon I told Nyasha what Sister Palesa had said. Nyasha said she wasn’t surprised. Perhaps it was better to stop. She didn’t want me getting hurt.
‘These people are crazy, Masechaba. And anyway, going on radio and everything is an unnecessary amount of attention. These things are delicate political matters. Leave it to the real activists.’
I’m annoyed. Here I am trying to do a good thing, trying to stand up for something I believe in. And the people around me who should be supporting me, who should be proud of me, are telling me to stop because the community will be irritated? Really? Who gives a fuck about the community? What’s happening is wrong, and if we don’t stand against what’s wrong, who will? You’d think Nyasha of all people would get this. I finally have a cause, something to wake up for, something to hang myself on, and Nyasha wants to take that away from me? No, I’m going to see this thing through. Was it not Nyasha who chastised me for allegedly neglecting that burn patient from Mozambique? Was she not the same person who swore at me for not doing more? And now that I am doing more, she has nothing but discouragement for me. The same Nyasha who goes running around to poetry sessions, criticising African presidents whose countries she knows nothing about, insisting that we must put an end to white supremacy once and for all, tells me to leave this noble cause to ‘the real activists’? I am an activist! The Mail & Guardian said so. She’s probably just jealous. Forget Nyasha. What I’m doing is bigger than her, and she’ll thank me in time.
Part 3
I say to myself, I will not mention His name, I will speak in His name no more. But then, it becomes like a fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones. I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.
Jeremiah 20:9
Why are You still here?
Go away!
Where were You when it happened? Did You watch? Did You cringe? Did You cry? Did You know all day? As I washed my face and brushed my teeth, chose my underwear and pulled on my scrub pants, did You know already that they’d later be ripped, that my tongue would be torn and my front teeth cracked?
Did You pity me, God?
How long have You known for? From the day before yesterday or the day before that? From my seventh birthday or the day of my birth? And all this time as I giggled and laughed and blew out candles on cakes, You knew this lay on my horizon and You said and did nothing?
And if You cared, because You claim You do, did You watch? All of it? From beginning to end? With eyes wide open? Was there no knot for me in Your stomach, no lump in Your throat? Me, Your child? You watched them rape me and didn’t blink, didn’t even blink. You, God, watched them tear me apart, divide me among themselves, and You stood and stared.
Or did You run and hide? See non
e of it at all? Only hear about it later?
Or were You out of town, away on business, saving lives somewhere else?
So now You come and You want to help me? Now, after the event, You want to console me? That’s very nice. That’s very, very nice.
Go away!
Why do You want to see us grovel? Why must we break first into millions of pieces before You shovel us off the floor? Why must we shatter first before You react? Why must we pray for things that are obvious? Wasn’t it obvious that I needed You to save me?
Go away!
Nyasha would mock me if she knew I still wrote to You.
I can’t sleep.
Our Father in heaven …
How could You let it happen?
Stay calm, breathe slow, think less.
Lord, please give me a hug. If You’re there, please give me a hug.
I’m so scared.
Do You hate me?
Who are You, anyway, and why should I care what You think? Where do You come from? How can I trust You when You have no home, no people who call You their own?
Just leave me alone.
Please Jesus, come now. Please don’t leave me.
I wish this was all just a really long, really bad dream.
I took a bath today. Ma cried. I cried. Ma said, ‘Everything will be fine.’ I told her not to lie. Ma cried some more.
I wish I could disappear.
You’d think You, being the ruler of the universe, could take a large damp cloth, spray it with bleach and wipe all of this away. Or press a reset button, or pull out the batteries, disconnect the cord, or something, anything. Put me in a deep sleep and make it all a dream.
But You won’t, will You?
I don’t even know why I speak to You. You never speak back. Your silence is everywhere. It’s thick and plugs out the air. It’s outside and inside, making it hard to breathe, hard to believe.
I prayed daily. I prayed DAILY. I PRAYED DAILY. I PRAY DAILY. I PRAY DAILY! Are You deaf? Why do You not hear me? Why can’t You see me? Here I am. Strike me down, please! I want to die.
Lord, I’m sorry. Will You get under the covers with me, please? If I ask You nicely, will You do it, please? If You’re there, please don’t leave me here alone.
Is it because I didn’t wear my rosary to work? Are You mad with me? Is it because I didn’t vote? Or is this about Francois? I only let him finger me, Lord. That’s all we did. Surely You can’t be so cruel?
Or is this supposed to be the ‘thorn in my flesh’? This is no thorn, Lord, this is a dagger!
What did I do to deserve this?
Okay, never mind. Just go. Go be wherever else You need to be. Leave me be.
Sister Agnes came to visit me today. She brought scones with her and a recycled card that said Happy Birthday on the front. It had a kitten on it with big cartoon-like eyes. Inside she had scratched out the ‘Happy Birthday’ and written ‘Condolences’. She told me some of the interns had written a letter of complaint to the National Department of Health. They passed it round from one departmental morning meeting to the next, asking for signatures to support the letter stating that security on the hospital premises needs to be improved. She said the superintendent had ordered pepper spray and whistles for everyone to wear at night. She said they were praying for me every day. She said I should pray too, that God would help me.
Help me with what, I wondered. What could this God possibly do for me now?
The visitors pour through the door. I feel like an animal in a zoo. Ma says they only want to show me their support; it’s better not to be alone for too long. But they irritate me, saying stupid things like, ‘Everything will be okay, don’t worry, everything will be okay.’ How do they know everything will be okay? Why do they say stupid things they have no evidence for? Things that are impossible to guarantee. ‘Everything will be okay.’ They say it with such confidence. Liars! Where is their evidence? Everything will be okay? No, it won’t. Nothing is okay. Absolutely nothing.
If people don’t know what to say they shouldn’t say anything at all.
Maybe I didn’t pray right. Maybe I didn’t pray long enough, soft enough, hard enough … maybe I said the wrong prayer, too many prayers, vague prayers … maybe my prayers were insincere, unconvincing, repetitive, boring …
Give me a second chance, please. Teach me how to pray the way You want and I’ll do it. I’ll do it every day, twice a day, all day. Please, just make this all a bad dream. Take all of this away, please, Lord. Please.
What is the point of us being here on earth if everything’s all about heaven? If You don’t want to/ don’t care to/can’t change anything here on earth, what’s the point really? If it’s all completely random and just about struggling through to the end that will eventually come, why do we bother?
If this is temporary, why can’t I just fast-forward to the inevitable and kill myself?
In fact, I will kill myself. You think I’m scared to? I’m not. I’m just too weak right now, but once my energy comes back, I’ll do it, I’ll kill myself. Just You wait and see.
Will You really send me to hell if I kill myself? Even though I love You so much? Even though I’d be doing it to get closer to You?
Being alive is the most dangerous thing in the world. Anything can happen at any time. It’s safer to be dead.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to be for me. This was not the plan.
I’m so sick of hearing about Job. Everybody wants to tell me about Job. The story of Job isn’t comforting. I don’t care if it has a happy ending. It doesn’t make me feel any better to know that he had everything replaced in the end. Some things just can’t be replaced.
Ma asked if the voices are gone. What voices? What voices? She looks at me like she’s scared of me. I see her watching me as she hurries up and down the passage.
What voices, Lord?
She brings me the daily newspaper, then fruit, then rusks, then crisps, then tea, then porridge, then bread, then peanuts. I can’t eat all this food, and the newspapers make me sad.
What voices?
I’m bleeding again.
Fix me.
Fix me.
Fix me.
Heal me.
Heal me.
Heal me.
Are You not the Great Physician? Or should we wait for somebody else?
It’s been a while since I bled like this, since drops of serum and cells of haemoglobin have dripped past my thighs, day after day, so that all that’s left coming out is water. It’s been years since I’ve felt such rage for the dysfunctional flesh within my pelvis, years since I’ve wanted to stick my fist all the way up my vagina and yank the demon out.
Will it always be like this?
I pee slowly. Not fast like before, when I was somebody with things to do and people waiting for me. I pee slowly so it doesn’t burn. I pee slowly because my mind is idle and there’s nowhere else it needs to be.
Sometimes when I’m forgetting, drifting into mindlessness, I’m jolted by a breath on the back of my neck, a breath like the one that breathed on me before grabbing me from behind and bringing my legs to the floor. I begin to cry out. Ma says it’s just a breeze, that the doors and burglar bars and gates are all locked, and nobody can hurt me in here. But that breath gets in somehow, under the door, through the burglar bars, over the gate. I feel it warm and moist on my neck. I tell Ma she must stop bringing me all these newspapers and use them to plug the windows, the doors, the holes in the walls. But she gets angry when I say these things. She says she won’t allow me to surrender my mind to madness.
If I feel myself beginning to get anxious, if the thoughts in my head begin to move at an ever-increasing pace and there seem to be others threatening to start a conversation in my mind, I cover my head with my pillow and force-sleep. Sleep works better than all the anxiolytics Dr Phakama prescribed, because when I wake up I’ve forgotten and for minutes, sometimes even up to an hour, I exist lightly, like a being without
a care in the world.
Ma says that Philippians 4 says I mustn’t be anxious, but through prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, I should present my requests to God.
I’m not sure what kind of petition You mean, Lord, but I henceforth pray with a thankful heart that You take my life.
Amen
Can You hear me? Do You even care?
Did You not say, ‘Seek and ye shall find, knock and the door shall be opened’? Didn’t You say that? Can’t You hear me knocking? Can’t You see me seeking? Hello! I want to die!
I don’t know why I bother.
03:02 … 03:02 … 03:02
What is it about this time of night that drags me from sleep, pulls my eyelids open, shakes my mind awake? There were three men and they divided me in two? Or was it three times two?
Period Pain Page 5
