• The most important things to remember are the ones we never knew
My year isn’t getting any better. If anything, it’s going further down the drain of misery.
After waking up in the gutter the other day and having a strange woman I had spent New Year’s Eve bring me coffee as a peace offering, and after going through the worst hangover a vengeful God could throw my way, today I wake up at the hospital beat up, bruised and having no memory of yesterday.
As a doctor, I’ve dealt with patients suffering short memory loss, and from the bruising all over my body, I don’t have to see my medical chart to know I suffered a concussion some time last night.
“Do you know how I got here?” I ask the nurse taking my vital signs.
“A young woman brought you in,” she says. “Said she picked you up off the street. You might have been mugged or something.”
And yet I don’t remember a mugging or any other encounter that would leave me with bandages on my arms and head.
“Did she leave a name?” I ask.
“She didn’t. In the hustle to get you to the ER, she disappeared and hasn’t been back since.”
A good Samaritan? Could be. An evil date who probably drugged me, saw pity on me and brought me to the hospital? Very likely. But then there are the bruises to explain. I’ve never had a date beat me up before, so this would be a first.
Only later in the day do I come about the answer to my predicament. During visiting hours, a nurse walks into my ward room and announces that I have a visitor. Who, I ask. Your brother, she says. But I don’t have a brother, I counter. Well, he’s outside and very worried about you.
The man who walks into my room couldn’t be my brother in any universe in the multiverse. He’s as tall as Goliath and built like two Mike Tysons.
“Who are you?” I ask, making a futile attempt to sit up. Just in case, I keep the nurse-call button in my hand.
“You might want to conserve your strength,” says the stranger, setting a basket of fruits on my side table. “As soon as you leave the hospital, you and I are gonna have another little chat like we did yesterday.”
“You did this to me?” I ask, but the man is already at the door.
A few seconds later, his head peeks around. “Oh, and you might want to visit a gym or a dojo. I never enjoy one-sided conversations.”
On the next visiting slot, Akinyi, the woman I was on a date with on New Year’s Eve, comes over.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Is there a way you can get the doctor to diagnose you with end-stage renal disease, liver failure or heart failure?”
“So you can stay longer at the hospital? You see, on New Year’s Eve, I was supposed to marry the man who came to see you earlier. And as you might have realised by now, he has a bit of a problem with his temper.”