BACHELOR'S DIARY: Pregnant? Wasn’t me

Dear Diary,

Actions have consequences. As a doctor, I’m more familiar with this than most people. I get patients from all walks of life, some falling sick from no fault of their own, but most as a result of lifestyle diseases, meaning bad personal choices. And bad medical decisions.

The other day I was in our cardiologist’s office, laughing at an anecdote he was relating.

“I have this patient I had prescribed patches for his heart,” she said. “So, the other day, he comes for a check-up and I asked him how he’s doing.”

The patient said, “I’m okay but I’m having one problem.”

“Which is?”

“The patches.”

The patient was supposed to apply patches over his heart to support the walls.

The cardiologist asked, “What’s the problem with the patches?”

“The nurse said I should put on one patch every day, but now I’ve ran out of places to place them.”

The doctor had the man lift up his shirt and sure enough, the patient was covered all over his body in more than 50 patches.

“He’s supposed to remove one and replace it with another,” the cardiologist said.

Luckily, it wasn’t a fatal mistake and we got a laugh out of it. Just then, I got a call from a number I didn’t recognise. In my profession, this is common. I answered the call.

“Hello,” said a strange voice. “Naitwa Kimani. Mimi ni Mzee wa Kijiji huku Kieni, upande wa Nyeri. Wewe ni Dr Tom?”

I said I was, then there followed probably the strangest conversation I’ve ever had in my life. Apparently, the Mzee wa Kijiji was calling me on behalf of a female in his village who had presented her case to the wazee, seeking redress for the wrongs I had done to her.

“Could you elaborate some more?” I said.

“Daktari, umevunja mbuzi ya wenyewe mguu.”

Honestly, I didn’t understand what the old man was talking about. On the surface, it seemed like he had confused me with a veterinarian and was accusing me of cruelty to animals. That would’ve been an easy fix. But if so, why would he say the goat had presented the case to him?

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Is this about an animal?”

“Daktari, unaita mwanamke mnyama?”

Okay, it’s a woman. Thinking it was probably a medical matter, I asked, “Is she one of my patients?”

“Hapana, daktari. Ni mpenzi wako.”

Now, this is an even broader category. I’ve dated more women than I’ve treated.

I asked the man to be specific. This woman, said the mzee, is called Wacu. Surely, I must remember such a unique name?

No, I didn’t, and neither do I remember the names of most women I’ve dated. I’m better with faces but I was not about to ask the old man for a pic.

“I’m afraid I don’t recall the name,” I offered. “What’s the nature of her complaint?”

“Si nimekwambia umevunja mbuzi ya wenyewe mguu. Inakaa wewe unataka kuruka hii mambo.”

“Is this a prank? How could a woman I dated complain about me hurting her goat?”

“Yeye ndiye mbuzi na umemvunja… Ah, what the hell. Wacu is accusing you of impregnating her. And before you go asking for evidence and all that, I can tell you she’s already as huge as a country bus.”

“I’m afraid she must be mistaking me for someone else. I don’t recall dating a Wacu, and I definitely don’t remember impregnating one.”

“For your own good,” said the man, “you are requested to attend a baraza in our village to solve this matter.”

So, I guess I’m travelling to Nyeri soon.