I am a little surprised because I am visiting an area down at the coast and hence the kids here don't know me as well (or usually have many requests). I jump up immediately and as I reach the door I hear sobbing. Instinct kicks in and I race over to the young teenager -Mwongeli- who is clearly distressed, her entire hand is completely red with blood and it is pouring down her arm. 'I'm coming back' I call out and race to grab some first aid gear.
The story soon comes out- she fell in the dark and landed on a glass bottle and there is still a large amount of glass inside her hand. By now the muscle has seized up around the glass and try as I might I can't get it out. I bandage it quickly to stop the blood and we decide to go to the nearest health centre that has night shift doctors.
Myself, Jeremy (a local friend) and the two girls speed along the dirt road- fortunately Jeremy is an excellent driver and despite the dodgy roads and pitch blackness we arrive safely at the centre in less than 15 minutes.
A 'doctor' approaches us and asks what's wrong, upon hearing he turns and walks away. We decide to take a seat, Mwongeli is still sobbing softly and recalling past waits and dramas with hospital experiences I fish around in my purse and find some painkillers for her.
The doctor returns and is behaving so erratic it is soon apparent that he (and his two colleagues) are completely drunk.
Initially he sees the bandage and says she has already been treated and hence we have no need for him. Jeremy explains the concept of first aid and finally he takes us through to a treatment room. I try to enter with her but the doctors refuse. Screaming and yelling ensues from the room and then the door bangs open and the doctors ask me to come in to 'console' her.
The drunk doctor is holding a wad of bloody gauze and the hole in Mwongeli's hand is gaping open as he roughly wipes it out. I quickly put my arms around her head and arm, directing her not to look, telling her she is brave and that it will hurt less if she is still.
The doctors are now more interested in my arrival than the wound and start asking my name, where I am from, my marital status and contact details. I try to direct attention back to the injury and ask if they have removed the glass. He says they have but decides to dig around a little more regardless. Mwongeli screams and writhes.
I ask if they are going to use anaesthetic as it is obviously agonising... they seem to see the merit in this idea and a needle is produced and rammed into her hand so hard it snaps.
By now I am loosing patience and Mwongeli is beside herself in pain. Becoming frustrated I ask if they are even real doctors and the one about to stitch gets so offended he stops working.
After a bit of placating towards the doctors and consoling towards Mwongeli finally we get it stitched up. The doctor remarks to me 'you are so good at consoling!' I feel like saying 'wish I could say the same about your doctor skills!' but I figure it is in everyone's best interests for me to bite my tongue.
Painkillers are arbitrarily shaken into a bag and we are out of there.
The relief of the pain and drama being over washes over us and we are fortunately all able to see some humour in the whole situation and have a good stress releasing giggle about the whole experience.
Sometimes the Kenyan health system is surprisingly good, but other times I am vividly reminded that I am living in a developing country. This occasion is definitely the latter!
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