Lights from an approaching car blind me as I sit in a heap, bawling my eyes out. The car pulls up alongside me. It’s the polo player who was keeping me company earlier. The prude is still back there, trying to solve the mess he got us into after he crashed into someone’s car while fleeing askaris who caught us in the act.
“Are you ok?” he asks. “Oh, crap, you’re bleeding.”
He gets out and helps me into the passenger seat. I must be quite the sight, clutching my broken heel. I’ve never been more grateful to see someone in my life.
“Do you need a hospital?” he asks.
I shake my head, wiping away my tears. “I don’t think so,” I say, trembling.
“No, you should see someone. That’s quite a nasty cut,” he says.
The player drives me to Nairobi Women’s Hospital in Hurlingham. To his credit, he does not ask questions.
“There should be someone here who can sew you up,” he says.
We walk into the clinic and go through the registration process. We sit in silence for a while. The place is deserted, save for a mother and her crying baby. They call out my name and I’m directed to the nurses’ station. One checks my blood pressure and temperature. She suddenly looks alarmed.
“Is something wrong?” I ask nervously.
“Your blood pressure is very low,” she says. “This could be serious. Unless…”
“Unless what?” I ask.
“When was your last period?” she asks.
“Well…” Oh crap. Good thing the player is waiting for me outside. “I haven’t had a period in a couple of months. I’m pregnant.”
The nurse smiles. “Well, that explains it. It’s not uncommon to have a drop in blood pressure during pregnancy.”
Thank God. The last thing I need is yet another problem via a health scare. I’m not even covered by insurance! Crap.
“Why does it lower blood pressure?” I ask.
“Well,” the nurse says as she yanks the blood pressure thingy off my arm. Relief! I can’t stand it. It hurts as they pump it up.
“Circulation expands during pregnancy. Hormonal changes cause the blood vessels to dilate, and that leads to the lowering of your blood pressure.”
Like I understand what that means. “This is why you get lightheaded, experience dizziness and feel faint,” the nurse continues. “How exciting! A baby!”
I rub my head in pain. Not from my cut but from her!
“Is that all?” I ask.
“Just your weight and we’re done,” says the nurse.
I stand on the scale. I weigh the same. Yaaaaaay!
“Trust me, you’ll be eating for two real soon,” says the nurse, who by now is getting on my nerves. “Have you decided on a name?”
I shake my head. “The dad is so attentive, bringing you in at this time of night,” she continues.
I’ve had it.
“He is not the dad. He is some random guy I met today. I was screwing his friend in the car and no, that guy is not the father of my kid either.”
She is stunned. “Anything else?” I ask sweetly, nodding at the weighing scale. She shakes her head, unable to speak.
“If you don’t really want to know people’s stories, don’t ask,” I say and pick up my bag. I walk out of the nurse’s station with a smirk.
I’ve always wanted to do that. You know how people ask “How are you?” but don’t really give a sh*t? They just want you to say “fine”. How would they react to you saying you just got auctioned, husband left you, baby just died, you have cancer and you owe KRA millions?