Night of Darkness

by Daniel Odondi

The reality was now home. It had been months of unyielding anxiety. We had been running from one hospital to another. Our hospital runs came to an end with a series of tests at the Aga Khan University Hospital, Kisumu. Our fears were confirmed: the hospitals had all along been treating a misdiagnosis. Mama was suffering from pancreatic cancer. And like the case with several cancer incidences in the third world, Mama’s case was diagnosed late. The cancer was already at stage four. Another hospital admission was scheduled but she could not go in immediately. She insisted on attending the burial of Monica Owiti, my shemeji. Monica, or simply nyar Yala as Mama fondly called her, was very close to Mama, both in health and in sickness. Theirs was a friendship born of trust. Monica had unexpectedly died, succumbing to years of an illness which had even paralysed her onto a wheelchair. We buried Monica on 29th November 2015. On 1st December, Mama was ready to be hospitalised.

I wanted to escort her the farthest I could. I had the worst fears. Something kept telling me this would be my last time with Mama. She could see all the fears written in my face. Mama’s rate of degeneration was hourly, to say the least. She was beaten. She was bruised. Her countless visits to hospitals had only drained her more. The disease had planted a sense of helplessness all over Mama. Yet joyfulness did not leave her face. “Moi, I have lived all my years. I have given birth to and raised you, all eight of you. Not once have I slept in a hospital except when having a baby. I don’t know what this illness is up to,” she had told me one day. She encouraged me to be strong. Against my wish, Mama urged me to go back home and let my other siblings take her to hospital. I obeyed her. I hoped it would not be the last time I was obeying her word.

Mama was admitted at the Jaramogi Oginga Odinga Referral Hospital in Kisumu. It was said that there was an oncologist at the hospital who could take care of her. She created a scene before she was checked in at the hospital, I learned that evening. She castigated her handlers for forgetting to bring her radio. Mama was a diehard Ramogi FM fan. She was always tuned in. Whether she was on the farm or just doing house chores, mum’s radio was always on. She would sleep with the radio by her side. She couldn’t, therefore, understand how her caregivers, her family who should know better, could forget to carry her radio. She forced them to buy her another. She calmed down only when a new radio was delivered.

Mama was admitted on a Monday but the said specialist had not appeared by Thursday. Her condition was getting worse by the minute. She needed urgent attention. There was little we could do to help her. She asked to be taken back home. She said it would be better to die among her loved ones instead of wasting away in a hospital where nothing was being done to save her life or make her situation bearable.

My siblings reasoned that Mama needed better care, even if to prolong her life for only one minute. They wrestled with her home-bound spirit and took a detour to Eldoret, where they would try luck at the Moi Teaching and Referral Hospital. Mama must have frowned at being denied her wish to be home. The Eldoret journey was only taking her farther away from home. Mama gave me a call on their arrival in Eldoret. She asked me to tell Min Tinga, the home manager, to iron her clothes and neatly keep them inside her suitcase. Min Tinga dutifully delivered on Mama’s request. The next day, Friday, Mama was admitted to the Eldoret hospital.

On Saturday morning, something told me to call Mama. The ten o’clock call was promptly picked by my sister Aoko, who had left her matrimonial home to take care of Mama. She told me Mama was too weak to talk. Moreover, they had been sent out to allow the hospital staff to clean the wards. I could hear none of that. I asked my sister to let me speak to Mama.  Soon I was on the line with Mama. As Aoko would later tell me, Mama could not summon any strength to hold the phone. Aoko held the phone for her. Mama could barely get words out of her mouth. Although it was around noon, Mama’s life had turned into darkness. To her every time was night. She encouraged me to cheer up and to have enough sleep. She assured me, despite her difficulty in speaking, that she would be fine. She counselled me to be considerate to my younger siblings for they would be the ones to come to my rescue. I could not hold back tears. She could tell I was crying. She suspended her pain to comfort me like a three-year-old kid. I was always a child to her. I assured her she would be fine. I was grief-stricken the whole day and night. Darkness engulfed my vision. There was no cheer in life. And no reason to cheer up.

The next day was 7th December. Being a Sunday, I engaged in one or two chores at home but I was restless. I had no peace of mind. I was disturbed in my heart. I couldn’t get any sleep that night. I couldn’t even bring myself to lie in bed. I just sat there, thoughts running in my head. It was approaching midnight yet the only thing I could do was to stare blankly at the darkness. My phone battery had died earlier in the evening. I did not bother to recharge it. I finally told myself that it would be better to try and get some sleep. I lay in bed. I hoped that some sleep would momentarily take my mind off the thoughtless wandering.

Before I could catch any sleep, there was a knock at my door. When I opened, one of my sisters-in-law was standing in the night. She asked if I had received any call from Eldoret. I told her my phone had been off since early evening. She told me Aoko had just called her. Mama had breathed her last moments ago, at midnight. I was motionless. I couldn’t let out a word. It was a night of darkness. All I could hear were wailings coming in from all corners of the entire village. Nyondago, our mum, was gone. I would see Mama no more.