Well, I got to watch and read about the WRC Safari rally. The somesaulting drivers flown to Nairobi, the Nairobi entourage of spectators living life largely, and the decorated FIA president being decorated with a national award. Chief of the Burning spear. For his burning spirit and dedication that had brought the circuit back to Kenya.
Monday comes with its blues.
But, as I have observed before, there is never a dull moment in the life of the village surgeon. My heart was warmed by seeing a septogenarian I had admitted with severe malnutrition and suspected colon cancer munching away at a pile of oranges.
"You mean with all the schooling, you advised the patient to have oranges as her source of high protein diet?" I thundered to the nutritionist in my team, knowing very well that she was not to blame. If anything, the swollen legs and sulky face- all evidence of poor nutrition-had abated over the #Vasha weekend.
She had had porridge and a mug of milk was enroute in a few minutes, the nutritionist mitigated her case.
In the next room there was a lanky gentleman with a tubing coming out of his left chest.
He is a driver. An extreme sports enthusiast. He was busy that weekend too, as usual.
Not on the terrains of Nakuru or Narok counties thronged by cheering youthful fans.
He was plying his natural route. Into the forays of Samburu county, other days he veers into Marsabit, Mandera or Moyale. That is his lucrative market route for the green gold of Nyambene- miraa.
On this night, Friday to be specific, he accelerated into the northern frontier counties in his dad's pick up mini truck. It was bursting at the seams with sacks of miraa, tightly secured with sisal ropes.
In the front, with his co-driver, they carried a hand bag full of the same. For personal consumption along the way.
"It goes down really well with crest soda and some sweets."
Then bandits pounced upon him. The gun wielding men had erected an illegal barrier using rocks. The car hit them and turned. He sustained some injuries to his chest. They were probably mild. May be not. The butt of the rifle was used to traumatize him more, hitting his left chest. The bandits got away with cell phones and the miraa in the handbag. And of course the money.
No one bothered with the tons piled on the back.
When the young man came to his senses, he had suffered broken ribs, a cracked shoulder blade and a collection of blood in his left chest. It is this blood that needed evacuation using a special tube tunneled under a column of water.
When I finished hearing his story and confirming his grade of injuries, I posed the question to him (on your behalf):
" How come Miraa drivers did not go to #Vasha?"
He chuckled then caught his breath, having been reminded by the pain that his body still hurt.
"They assessed us and told us we are overqualified. If we can drive loaded heavy land cruisers at that speed, imagine the small empty racing cars!"
"Ahem!" There you have it.
I caught up with him last week at the clinic. He confirmed the above sentiments. But he acknowledged to not having had training in advanced driving.
He is doing well. Safe for one small issue.
"I was advised that I should avoid any strenuous activities", he observed, "now my wife is complaining."
I was profusely apologetic. In our overzealousness we had overlooked the fact that our instructions extended to making the energetic man abstain from rocking the bed. In the process, his marriage was starting to rock.
"Please. Anything that doesn't involve your chest is just fine," I am not sure I believed myself saying this. But broken ribs can be mended.
Broken marriages are outside my realm.
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