ON WEDNESDAYS
She drags herself, shuffling her feet through the wide entrance to Accidents and Emergency. Her right cheek appears larger than it should be and the tangy metallic taste of blood lingers on her tongue. This time there’s a gap where a tooth used to be. She is holding her left side and her head is throbbing. She pauses at the doorway for a few minutes, holding onto the frame to steady herself, then lowers herself onto the examination bed with difficulty. The night shift nurse looks up from her phone casually. “Ni wewe tena?” she asks, as she pauses the Tiktok video she was engrossed in and pockets her phone. She grabs a new triage chart and thermogun, shifts the gum in her mouth and proceeds to start the assessment.
A week later, Resian is preparing to walk out through the same doors. This is the fifth time the same doctor signs her discharge sheet. He does not look up as he hands her the card with a helpline number again. Resian tosses her painkillers into a carrier bag. The pills rattle. As she walks towards accounts to pay the Ksh 9,600/= bill, she presses her thumb where the new stitches pull at her lower lip. The clerk stamps her SHA form and slides it back with her ID card. An hour later, she is at the matatu stop near the hospital gate. She can feel her heart pounding beneath the fresh bandage when she boards the No. 8 which is already half full.
Back home, she changes into her sweatpants. They hang looser at the waist though they used to fit, and she lowers herself onto the bed. Her neighbor Mama Wanjiru knocks on her door. A tired Resian welcomes her in but she doesn’t look Mama Wanjiru in the eye. In the thick silence that ensues, Resian’s breathing breaks, she sobs and leans forward into the older woman’s chest. Mama Wanjiru’s faint scent of cooking oil and soap is comforting. It began with a raised voice here, an insult there, then a slap…until on one of those occasions, she woke up to the smell of antiseptic, the hospital gown and the white walls she had come to know so well. She called her manager at work to report that she had a funeral to attend. An excuse here, a lie there… but here and now in Mama Wanjiru’s arms, her stitches, scars and bruises press against the old woman’s kitenge. She heaves and clutches onto the helpline card.
She lifts the cup with both hands, sips the milk tea and bites into the mandaazi. The aroma of cinnamon from the steamy tea hits her nostrils. Mama Wanjiru’s kiosk is really busy today. Crowded, bodies move in and out, brushing at the small entrance. Coins clink at the counter. Resian breathes steadily, some lightness in her chest. Her cheeks are fuller and her clothes fit again. She got off from work early today to visit Mama Wanjiru. And she brought along a friend, Achieng, whom she met at the Maisha Women and Girls Safe House. After telling stories and laughing with Mama Wanjiru, the two young women prepare to head back to the Safe House. Mama Wanjiru wraps some maandazis in old newspaper for the younger girls at the rescue center. As Resian wipes sugar from her lips, some particles fall into her handbag, where there’s an envelope with the document confirming the date of the court hearing. Not even ‘kitu kidogo’ was enough.
Resian retires to bed. She whispers a short prayer in the dark. No aching sides. No endless painkillers on the bedside table. No snoring boozy body turning toward her in the night. No
tears-soaked pillow case. Tomorrow is Wednesday. She looks forward to the session with Nyokabi, her therapist. And she smiles at the thought of office gossip during lunchbreak. The room is quiet. She falls asleep.