By Frank Bray.
I looked through the dark at the streetside where a man lay shaking. Earlier on, I had seen two guys talking to him and hoped they’d take him home. I’d hoped with my entire heart. They’d even revved a motorbike next to him. “Definitely they’ll take him home,” I thought. It was 10:40.
His wheelchair lay a few yards away, the front wheel broken in what I still hold a mystery. It must have been run over by some vehicle or something. I never got to know.
After buying what was to be bought, I walked through that street just to make sure. The darkness ahead bore a dark figure stretched upon the ground shaking. They’d left him.
“Yoh! Bro! What happened?” I asked.
“Where do you live. Let me sleep at your place?” He asked.
“Its going to be tricky.” I said, discouraged by the fact that where he lay was muddy ground and that he had probably dragged himself across it based on how far from him he’d left his wheelchair.
“Let me see what I can do.” I said.
I walked across the road and waved down the now scarce bodaboda riders passing by. I managed to flag one down.
“Could you help me please…”I started,” There’s one crippled guy stranded in that street over there. I was thinking we could take him home. I’ll pay kshs. fifty.”
He refused. It was too big an inconvenience for him. Plus he wanted a hundred shillings for the whole hustle. Which I declined regrettably. Left with few convenient options I dialed what you’d think the magic number 911. The operator picked.
“Hello. What’s your emergency?”
“I have a wheelchair bound person stranded in the streets in the middle of the night. I’d like to know if anything could be done to help.”
The conversation ended with, “The nearest police station to you will call you on your number.”
I’d given details of the location hoping it would be just a matter of a short time before I got more direction on the way forward. It never happened. I called again. So many minutes later.
We got through the first formalities with this second operator once more then he listened to my predicament.
“Can’t you host him at your place?”
He suggested. I felt like I was being tested.
Swiftly, I explained why I couldn’t host the guy. For one, he was muddy and two, I doubted his sanity, hygiene and mental stability. I’d once pushed him home on a different night only to be rudely chased away at the gate. His voice militant. So threatening.
“Rudi nyuma.” He’d said when id pushed him into his probable compound of residence.
“Mgh?” I asked, not sure whether to drag him behind or what he meant. He’d repeated the order and I’d repeated my initial confused response.
“Toka hapa!” He’d shouted and slammed the gate to my face. I’d walked away with mixed feelings and thoughts. Doubting his sanity and mental stability.
This night, although the burden to help was heavy in my heart, the logic was off in its own way.
The call with the second operator ended with the same promise as the first. Thirty minutes later, I had to call again. My last call. Same promise.”Your nearest police station will call you on your number.”
I returned to my residence, yet my mind still wandered outside with the unfortunate man. It was a cold night. A chilling breeze swept outside. The same cold breeze that had told me it was time to go inside. I waited to be called back while thinking about the more humanised emergency services of the Western world.
I still wait. But one thing remains clear. Being stranded is not an emergency. Not currently. Not in Kenya.
