A Court Of Fowls: Episode 37
Stewart Munro learns at last what has happened to Jamila who has been involved in a major road accident on the Mombassa road.
Michael Conrad Wood continues his high-octane novel of romance, civil war and kidnap.
To read earlier episodes of Michael's novel visit
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Chapter 14
Test of Strength
I drove south praying that Jamila had somehow survived the accident.
The newspaper images wouldn’t leave me. That tangled mess
of metal from the high speed collision; the neatly laid out line of
bodies on the roadside like sleeping babies in an African creche; the
crowd of bystanders looking down at the corpses with morbid curiosity.
It took three hours to reach Tsavo. No wonder the Honourable
Peter Kifoto had castigated his peers about the state of the road.
This main trunk route between Kenya’s two largest cities was truly
abysmal and brought new meaning to the term ‘potholed surface.’
Soon after leaving Nairobi I had passed a sign which read: ‘BEWARE.
POTHOLES FOR THE NEXT 120 KILOMETERS.’ One
hundred and twenty kilometers later, a similar sign offered an identical
caution.
The accident site was four miles south of Tsavo. Already most of
the wreckage from the crash had been cleared away. Residual evidence
of broken glass and scarring of the tarmac was all that remained
to be seen. I returned to the town’s police station where I
was interviewed by an unusually helpful if circumlocutory female officer.
This is what she said to me:
‘You see. Those matatu driver! They fly up and down plenty. Do you think
they care? Not at all so. All they want is money. I am telling you. Can you
imagine what twenty three dead people is looking like? They is all mangle with
the engine and what not. For sure I am not wanting to see that one again.
Survivor? Yes, there have been one from the matatu. When the crash happen
he have his arm out of the window. Can you guess what happen next? Sure as
an egg it get chop off when the two vehicle hit. Also there was the woman in that
big Peugeot. She try to swerve to miss the matatu but it hit she side on. It took
the fireman two hour to cut her out. She also go to the Accident and Emergency
but I don’t know how many injury she have. My God, that car. What a waste
eh. It was a new one.’
In spite of the policewoman’s lack of sensitivity my spirits lifted a
little. There was hope. I soon found my way to the hospital matron’s
office. Seated in front of me was a plump, middle aged woman, with
coiffured hair and horn-rimmed glasses giving her the appearance of
a black Dame Edna Everage.
‘I’ve come about Jamila Ngugi. She was involved in yesterday’s
road accident near Tsavo.’
‘Ah, that one,’ she said, without looking up at me.
‘How is she? Can I see her?’ I was desperate to know Jamila’s
condition.
‘You can, but she is in a coma.’
The woman pronounced the word like ‘comma’. She took me to
what passed as intensive care. Jamila lay motionless, propped up in a
typical iron-framed bed. There were tubes down her nostrils and
drips seeping into her arm. I couldn’t see a single abrasion or bruise
on her. She seemed almost peaceful in repose. But there was something
odd about her shape under the blankets. The sudden realisation
of what was wrong caused me to look in disbelief towards the
matron.
‘They had to amputate it just above the knee. The damage was too
great.’
With that, Dame Edna walked away, leaving me filled with grief
for my lovely Jamila, with guilt that I had not collected the car myself,
and shame that I had cheated on her while she was away.
