Tales of Ward C

 

25th July, 2025 started like one of those ordinary, kind mornings. I woke up feeling good, helped my daughter get ready for school, and dressed casually in shorts and a polo shirt. The day looked light. My plan was simple: drop her at school, pass by my kiosk to check the diary, then go back home to dress properly before starting work.

I dropped her off and passed by the clinic, which is just near her school. As I flipped through the diary, the calm of the morning quietly slipped away. There was an urgent early appointment in Runda that needed my attention. I quickly changed into my scrubs and headed out.

Back at the clinic later, another demanding case awaited me. It was a pet export matter that only I could handle. By afternoon, the clinic was busy, and I stayed on to support the team. When a grooming pickup was needed in Lang’ata, I volunteered without hesitation.

That decision changed everything.

In the compound were two dogs. Olaf, the small one I had come for, was visibly shaken, perhaps tired of vet visits that often meant injections and pain. The other was a large South African Boerboel, about one and a half years old and weighing nearly 83 kilograms. At first, Chess, the Boerboel was calm and receptive. Then, without warning, it changed.

It lunged at me.

Its powerful teeth clamped onto the back of my palm and refused to let go. I struggled in shock and pain, until instinct took over and I managed to prick its eyes with my free hand. It released me, still agitated. I jumped over the fence, rushed to my car, grabbed a bandage from the boot, and tied my bleeding hand tightly. A nearby taxi rushed me to the nearest hospital.

At Penda Clinic, I received first aid before being referred to Kenyatta National Referral Hospital with suspicion of a tendon injury. The painkillers gave me enough strength to drive myself to KNH. I was admitted around 4pm, and by 11pm it was confirmed that I would be admitted to the ward and scheduled for surgery the following day. I called my nephew to come for the car.

That night, Ward 6C became my new home.

I was given a corner bed next to Mzee Peter, an elderly man with multiple limb fractures. Behind me was Njugush, a young man who had lived with total paralysis for over four years after being hit by a train. Despite his condition, he was sharp, humorous, and surprisingly well-informed. He knew medicines by smell, color, and size, and somehow always knew the latest news. I often helped feed him, and he drank water through a long pipe from a raised jerrican, jokingly asking us to “direct the pipe to the Pope,” meaning his mouth.

Next to Njugush was Peter from Ngara, a street-smart young man with a broken leg. He was full of stories and contradictions—deeply prayerful in the evenings and mornings, yet secretly smoking shash at night. He was the most visited in the ward, with friends and girlfriends bringing him fruits, food, and laughter.

Nearby was Justo, a DJ and MC who had fallen from the ninth floor while fixing windows. He had a broken leg and a dislocated hip, yet remained cheerful and hopeful. His lively spirit lifted the ward, and nurses were drawn to his warmth and humor.

Directly opposite me was Joseph, a tall pastor with total paralysis. He was often bitter and easily irritated, but we shared a quiet understanding. He trusted me and would call me, “Wanyama, kuja unisaidie kidogo.” I helped him turn, move his numb legs, and shared fruits and bread with him as he waited endlessly for a spinal implant.

Life in Ward 6C followed a strict rhythm. The nights were cold, the blankets thin. At 5am, nurses woke us for medication and bathing the immobile patients. Breakfast was tea and bread, lunch was cereal, and dinner was ugali. The ward housed patients with hand and spinal injuries, each fighting their own silent battles.

Next to 6C was the renal ward. Every morning and evening, different trolleys rolled past. Some sounded light, carrying medicine or food. One, however, was heavy and loud: a silver trolley pushed by two jovial men in white overalls and gumboots. Its sound brought silence and fear. It meant death had visited again. The renal ward was hit hardest, sometimes losing up to eight patients a day.

Ward 6C was not an easy place to heal. The smell of medicine, the cold nights, the rolling trolley, and the weight of suffering made it heavy on the heart. I stayed for six days before being discharged.

It was an experience I never imagined—both traumatic and deeply human. Later, Mzee Peter and Pastor Joseph passed on.

May their souls rest in peace.

Ward 6C taught me how fragile life is, and how, even in pain, people still find room for laughter, kindness, and hope.