Tag Archives: Youth

One day I will write about this MESS…


That overtly friendly young man probably was the longest…

The new check-in, bloodied face and tubes sticking out…

The snoring attendant, groaning patient

The occasional fart,

That dude that doesn’t seem to shut his eyes

The blood, the pain, the occasional siren…

Barbary -ever so bubbly and helpful – yes she seals the occasional glance

That exciting meal at your lowest of appetites

The nurse in uniform – oh! That long suffering nurse

Lying in wait in the adjacent room for someone to say there is something wrong

Her replacement that comes in the morn,

Barking out orders expecting you know how

I could almost swear her battery operated device refused to work

The sweet doctor, the doc you would love to date, the elderly non-plussed and that newbie that wants to be heard not seen

Day one of God knows how many

Get well son… So I can fall asleep properly again



*this post is 2 weeks late for in the running of things I tend to forget.. 23rd of March 2012* Today I saw a young man die! His nose bleeding face scraped upon the tarmac and a motorcycle on his back; left arm lodged firmly under its metallic stand! He didn’t move! Someone from the crowd jumped onto his back with both feet. Another dragged the motorcycle till the young man’s arm came lose, hanging at an awkward angle behind his back before landing with a thud beside his already limp body. The blood from his face left a trail on the tarmac.
Frantically I dialled the emergency number, only to hear the engaged tone. Another of the mob kicked him hard, shifting the body, only for it to return to its original position. Only then did the crowd begin to disperse.. He must have died, I hang up the phone that was now redialling, turned and walked away. Ahead of me, a convoy drove past, escorting one of the dignitaries to the airport perhaps. A flash of anger and then quietness, why was I angry?
It hadn’t even been 5 minutes, the smartly dressed lad in a white tee, his friend in red walking unhurriedly on the cab. I walked briskly past, my bag clutched tightly undeneath my arm. No sooner had I turned the corner than the shout, “Mukwaate!” In response, hands reached out to grab the man, now trying to run away. I recognised him instantly. In his wake an elderly Indian man, his gold chain hanging on his shoulder, unclasped. His hand reached to his face, straightening his spectacles while the other took the chain and clenched it in a fist. He stumbled off the Boda Boda, the motorcycle that had been ferrying him and a friend, heading towards the young would be thief, now being pummeled by the mob. A hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Begrudgingly he turned and followed
Meanwhile, whoever could land a blow or kick did, the force of the mob stopping the traffic and swinging them to the center of the junction. The bumberea swelled significantly, the story being retold in deviance from one onlooker to the other.
I shook my head and walked on, the image of the tattoo slowly fading from my mind, the young man more dead than alive. I didn’t know and didn’t check. Was the mob right? The nearest post was at least 200m in either direction. I recalled my murderous thoughts when I my phone had been snatched. Had he been caught, would I have clobbered him? To death?
Later I passed by, the smudge of blood on the road surface the only sign of what had happened there! A sad reminder of what had happened there. Murder or justice?