Workers

The intern grabbed a sheet which were in short supply as the stretchers and floor space were overflowing with silently bleeding people who were in a bus that overturned on a stormy night. He gently nudged the man laying there bleeding from the nose. There was no response as he whispered "rafiki" and nudged him again. So he placed the sheet over the man and smiled when the patient clumsily tried to move the sheet off his legs.

Words come suddenly and loudly from the medical officer. "Unaumwa nini?" asked briskly as the gray haired, beleaguered woman takes a seat on the stool. More words uttered singularly, with a playful sense of authority. Eventually a smile on her tired face appears slowly like a sunrise.

Handwritten crumpled paper is unfurled as the intern moves to the front of the room and takes a seat at the table. The room is full of white jackets. The white jackets belong to the medical students with notebooks open, prepared to record the presentation. Wound toilet, debridement and wound excision are defined concisely and explained clearly. The orthopedic surgeon, after a brief period of silence, says " Good job".

Worn down. The looks on the faces of the nurses who have worked the night shift. Always, I mean always, an engaging "Habari za nyumbani?" as I walk in each morning.

Sometimes what needs to happen, happens. Sometimes not.
The moments are lived fully. That allows for interruptions that rarely seem unwelcomed. I am unsure how the future is lived in here. I don't think it is counted on. The past seems quickly forgotten as well which can be good and bad.

The conversations here can seem like flying in a small plane through a thick, white cloud. You can't see where you are going or from whence you've come. It is pleasant for the moment actually but there is a foreboding sense of a need to see if you are about to hit the side of a mountain.