A drunk patient makes my day

Recuperating at Kericho Level 5 Hospital from a gunshot wound to my buttocks has not been a bed of roses, but when a new patient takes the bed next to me in the ward, things get pretty hilarious.

The man, about 30 years old, is admitted for burns on his lower legs. Half his trousers are burnt to a crisp and I can smell alcohol on him from a mile away.

A nurse and a mzungu doctor are attending to him. “Mr Mureu,” says the doctor (he pronounces it MEW-RAY-YOU), “are you drunk?”

“Mimi?” says Mureu. “No, way!”

The doctor smiles, points at the patient’s trousers. “Liar, liar pants on fire!”

The nurse and I burst out laughing. Mureu doesn’t get the humour. He starts patting himself. “Eti underwear yangu inaungua?”

Of course, this makes me laugh some more. The doctor and the nurse restrain themselves. “Mr Mureu,” the doctor says, “before I can sedate you, I need to know the amount of alcohol in your system.” He turns to the nurse. “Get a specimen from him.” He now turns to me. “You’re Sgt Makini, right?”

“I am,” I say, “and I’ve heard all the butt jokes.”

“Not this one.” The doctor smiles. “What did one buttock say to the other? Between you and me, it stinks in here.”

I have to laugh. I mean, that’s funny. Even Mureu gets it. “Ni ukweli hapo hunuka,” he says.

The doctor stops at the door, turns and comes back to me. “By the way, here in Kenya, is buttcheeks two words or do you spread em?”

The nurse and I are in stitches. Mureu doesn’t get it.

“Here.” The nurse offers him a small cup. “Go to the toilet and pee into this. I’ll be back to collect it.”

Mureu waits until the nurse leaves, whispers to me, “Mimi sinanga imani na hawa daktari wazungu.”

“Why?”

“Kuna mmoja alinipa dawa ya masikio nitumie siku tano na guess what? Haikufanya kazi.”

“Why? Was it bad medication?”

“Hapana. Kurudi hosi huyo mzungu aliniambia, ‘They’re called eardrops for a reason. You’re not supposed to drink them.’ Lakini nani angemwelewa kama anaongea na mapua!”

Now my wound is hurting from all the laughter. Little do I know Mureu is not done yet. Ten minutes later, he returns to the ward. “Ile line iko nje ya choo ni kama watu wanapiga kura. Lakini, kuongea ukweli, kupiga kura na kwenda choo ni same tu. Zote ni kutupa.”

“I take it you don’t vote?”

“Oh, no. Mimi hu-vote. Jana nili-vote Kaboi alipe bill ya pombe!” Mureu nearly keels over laughing at his own joke, only stops when the nurse comes in.

She looks at the specimen cup, notices it is empty. “You didn’t bring back any urine?”

“Asante, sista,” says Mureu, extending the cup towards her. “Lakini kwa choo kulikuwa na shimo. So, sikuona haja ya kukojolea chupa.”

The doctor comes back. “The urinalyses back yet?”

The nurse looks almost scared. “The patient hasn’t provided a specimen yet.”

“Performance anxiety, sir?” He begins cutting away Mureu’s trousers. “Don’t worry. Happens to the best of us. Take me, for instance. I always get nervous every time before I perform a new procedure. Like right now.”

Mureu jerks away his leg. “You mean hujawahi tibu mtu ameungua miguu before?”

“Nope.”

Mureu turns to the nurse. “Sista, please, hakuna daktari mwingine? Nitakubali hata daktari kutoka Kitui.”

The doctor smiles, holds Mureu’s leg once more. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mr Mureu. You’ll be fine. I just looked up how to perform this operation on YouTube.”