I hear Bernard’s groans just beyond Ahmed’s curtain. His injuries could be life altering. He hasn’t opened his eyes since he was brought to the hospital, “they’ve remained swollen and shut,” I remember his mother telling me. He hasn’t said a word either. Not that he has to.
Bernard’s groans are drowned by another’s. I look behind the curtain to see who it could be. I could ask but he wouldn’t be able to answer. His front teeth are missing, his top lip and gum red and swollen. All I can make out is, “somebody help me.”
Blood drips from his mouth as the nurses sitting on a table opposite his bed continue to shuffle papers. They are probably accustomed to the sight of a man with his head bandaged; blood seeping through the folds.
Bereft of words, tears start to trickle down his face. A face so stitched up he brings to mind a scarecrow.
“I’m never again going to use public means of transportation to get around Nairobi,” Ahmed says as I turn back to look at him.
That’s one way to approach the ever increasing risk of terrorist attacks but I think hardly a practical one.
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