The knock of love.

'Knock,knock! Knock knock!' A little gentle tap on the door, a little winding of the door knob, then a faint knock as if to assume the absence of one in the inn. Suddenly I awoke with a gasp of air. I had fallen asleep. Had I missed my date. The only chance I had to meet my dream mate at my door step, not that my door even had a step. My room was still in a mess. Soaks were all over the place, rolls of tissue hang were hangers were to be, shoes were far from being paired. The cooker had not received a share of tidying up for the past few days. Was I to open the door and run after her, but I couldn't afford her seeing my scruples. I was a neat guy, afterall. I recall having planned to clean up the room, perhaps she had come a little to early, or I had overslept. Love was walking away, but dirt was hindering my path. I felt a little like I was being ripped in twain by two horses pulling in opposite direction.
By the time I finally opened the door, I could barely hear the tapping of her gentle strides as she walked away.
I returned to my decrepit cabin, and swept my way to my seat. I had missed my flight to a new era. I had in my hand a ticket, wasted, non refundable.  I decided to tidy up my room. Dusted every corner of it, even the pictures on the wall suddenly looked a little like they had a smile on them, or perhaps I was day dreaming. I looked through my window, perhaps I would cast my eyes on that beautiful soul, but to no avail. Her prints could not last a second on the tarred surfaces.
I took a brisk shower, then extended it a little, and dressed up, as it were to meet the queen to be dabbed a knight, 'I dab thee sir dash-dash of dash dash'- something in those lines. I didn't have much of an apparel, I guess doctors were simple lads. A faithful pair of pants and my 'whity'  (white shirt) did the trick. I ran across the hallway, the corridors, down the stairs, of course laden with a bag of apologies for every bump into a bystander or more. I headed over to her room. Second storey, room number 131, there I stood with sweaty palms. I'ld wish she would say come in before I dared to knock, for somehow my hand had ran down with paralysis . In a mommet, I managed to knock on the door, gently , then a little harder until it was evident she was not around. Her roommate aswered, 'Oh, hi. She is not around, she left all dressed up for some occasion it seemed.' I tried calling her , but her line was off.
In a flicker of time, I received a call, not from one who awoke love in me, but from the hospital. I was needed. I quickly dashed over to my room, wore a labcoat and veered to the ward. Along the way, a lady stopped me. I almost bypassed her, but then , where were my manners, so I stopped. She started narrating what seemed like an eternity of a story line. I couldn't help it, so I asked how I could be of help, she retorted , "my son I need some money for transport...." I didn't as much as hear the end of the story, so I reached out for my wallet, a meager one too, but atleast it had a few good notes to share. I gave her as she requested. I was off,  a little unhappy about the delay.  Oh, and just when I was about to reach where I was headed, another woman, stopped me. I wondered whether I had an inscription ony face saying 'Not occupied, talk to me!'. I could almost tell where this was going. I asked ," Yes mom, how can I help?" She replied, "Kindly assist me get my husband up the staircase, we need to go to the clinic on the  3rd floor." What! But where were the elevators to take you up, or the nurses for crying out loud? I angrily asked in tones audible to none but I. I looked and behind her was a frail looking old aged man. He had a calmly face though , kind of reminded me of my on granpapa. I had a soft spot for him. Suddenly my tone changed. I told her to wait up as I rushed to check the elevators. I was disgruntled to find them non functional. "Ok, calm down, calm down",  I told myself as I took some deep breaths while counting to 10 back and forth.  I looked at my wrist watch, then up the staircase, then looked around for a nurse, but then I just had to swallow it all up. "OK young man" I motioned, "lend me your hand so we get up them stairs as a pair, what do you say?" He smiled and said, "Son, you've got wits, but more so a heart of gold for them wits you carry up in that lovely skull of yours, you're a good lad, God bless your soul" . We walked at snail pace, but we walked all the same till we got to the doctor's office. Somehow I was no longer all worked up . I was feeling mighty fine. I rushed down the stairway, and as I walked towards the ward, a man called out, "Doctor,doctor!" I had come to learn ,apparently, that every male in a white coat was a doctor and every female in a white coat somehow was a nurse, well atleast for the common folk, this held true . At first I ignored, then I just couldn't ignore him, perhaps he was one on the patients I had attended to a while ago. I turned around, trying to reach out for my pocket, perhaps money was the issue, but to my suprise, he stretched out his hand , in his palm he held my old time brown leather wallet. It had dropped a way off. "I picked it near the road, and some old lady told me it must have been yours, so I followed you, though you were a little fast, but thank God I found you". Without a word further, he zoomed away. I reached the ward, and who should I find there? My two good friends. Apparently all was well, unlike they sounded on phone. I thought something was terribly wrong, perhaps an  accident or the like. But all they needed was help to ascertain whether their observations during a 'DRE' was a pointer to prostate cancer. I had a go at it, and thankfully, it wasn't  suggestive of it. In a moment I began to think through the whole drama.  "I went through all that just to come and confirm this to you guys? " "Went through what?" one of them querried. It dawned on me, my thoughts had been broadcast. I was thinking out aloud.
So I never really got to see my love that day. I did see her on a few days that followed. A mere sight of her made me have sweaty palms, and my cardiac rythym was a little distorted, I had palpitaions. She was the sweetest thing I had come to know. A beauty at heart too. At first glance I was sure  she was the one. And at second and third glance too. I attempted to seal the deal . She gently let me down. So I didn't gain a soul mate, perhaps just a good friend, a pal, perhaps time may tell a better tale, perhaps something was ensuing.
But love was knocking still, apparently I had begun to answer the moment I realized I was never to busy to help one in need. Simple acts of kindness go a long way. The greatest love is that which involves giving of self to others. Yes the recepient may not have an alluring form, a calmly countenance or beauty marks yet still all deserve to be loved. For the things we love, time will always be found, even in our busy schedule. Perhaps love has been knocking on each one's  door, especially at yours.

Mission beyond the next mountain-Kabansa.

The engine began to rave, darkened  fumes, maybe soot, emanated from the exhaust, yet it was built for the task, the the little old trekker was ready to take us on our mission. The driver too seemed to have seen many days, a sunset too, more than the average passenger aboard his buky. A little dash of gray hair had begun to make way over his head and beard, and his frame was beginning to wane. A graphical representation would show a crossing between his will power and his physical strength,  with the former taking on the upper stride and the later a downturn. Yet that didn't cross our minds, well atmost, for an experience-worn driver behind the wheel was just perfect for our long voyage before us.
This was the second dispatch of missionaries to serenje. A little town in in the central province of Zambia, a little on the verge of Muchinga province. The first group had gone a week earlier. They had split in twain with one subgroup at a site called Masase and another called lusiwasi. We were to add bulk to their number, yet it was later suggested that we set up at a new site, further on from the former-Kabansa.
For most, this was going to be the first missionary experience. I could only imagine what went on in their innocent minds. But I dared not spoil the fun, lest by any means I weakened one's desire to reach out in service to fellow mankind in the rurals. I had come to understand over the years, that experience was not necessarily the best ally in mission fields, dealing with man. The complexity of each experience demanded a new me, a novice for the task, so that God could work in one without the bigotry of self.
By this time, my colleagues and I were worn out. Acquiring funds for this mission in particular seemed to have been the biggest huddle we had to cross thus far. In fact, we started our journey without money for a return trip. A little foolhardy? Perhaps. The process of fundraising was exasperating,  in one occasion we thought it best to change the mission to one nearer and less financially constraining, one more feasible, though it too would require an extra bout of money, just a little less than was needed for the current. After much deliberation, we decided to go ahead in faith, with the mission to the former.
We were soon on the road, enroute a rather peculiar venture. We were not many in number, therefore we would not take pride in it. A crew of 13 young enthusiasts perse. Five ladies and eight gents. Not much of a number to turn upside down any habitable place one might add, yet I recall vividly these words ' Numbers do not win battles...' but they sure do add some courage in one.
After a rather lengthy journey on a rather quia road-for its near lack of vehicles for a higway, we reached Serenje.  We made contact with our forerunners, they gave us news that our journey was just beginning. Apparently serenje was just a stop along the way, we had to make a detour for another gruesome 5 hours journey. Though tired, we san our lungs out. We burst into voluptuous melodies, reminiscent of the heavenly land. A reminder of a home we've never been, one would well be right to add, 'we missed a place we called our home, even a heavenly home, where dwells peace in ceaseless ages.'
At dusk, we reached Masase, where two of our number had to join the first of about eleven missionaries in the earlier dispatch.  We continued till about an hour later we arrived at Lusiwasi. With gladdend hearts we disembarked off the 'liner'. Our faces glistened as we beheld the Labour worn ,yet chearful faces of our colleagues. Almost entranced to the day when Christ shall bid his faithful one's, "Come blessed of my father, you have been faithful in little, come and enjoy the blessings of the Lord."
Yet we dared not get too comfortable, for this was not to be our abode. We had still a while to go.
Early, the next morning, we set out to our site. Little did we know what we were getting ourselves into. As the terrain was in impassable by vehicle to a large extent, we had to foot our way. With bags hanging over every appendage ,we strolled along the rugged hills and mountains. Seeing we had no aid of a vehicle, much of the luggage we had come with had to remain, only the very necessary things had to be carried. A bear minimum.  Yet even that was not an easy load to carry, for with the road ahead of us, even our own weight was a load too heavy to carry. A little down the mountain road, a heavy duty track was brought to our  aid  for a distance of half an hour till a cliff was reached, an inpass. From there aid was too provided down a electric whinch. A roller coaster kind of vehicle that traversed us down the second part of the same mountain, at the bottom of which stood a hydro electric power plant. At the foot of the mountain, we bagged  ourselves up again a walked in trails up and down some depths and heights .
A few locals rendered us some help with the luggage, but all too soon they had to depart . Interestingly, before they left, a colleague decided to unload his bag and gave them his bedings to lighten his load.  The locals were ecstatic . And he was one load lighter. Our water supply was calculated to get us to our destination, yet the locals had advised that we dispense it, for it would simply weigh us down. They gave the option of better water a way ahead in a cool flowing stream. We laughed at that idea especially when we had to cross it by foot without bridge.
After crossing the stream, our way became a little more treacherous with an ever up winding footpath, usually steepend on one side or both at times. We would rest in the cool of a spreading tree. The seering heat brought with it a drenching sweat, which also attracted a train of wild flies ,a true depiction of annoyance.  They buzzed around one'side ears, eyes and nares. Our closest attempt at riding ourselves of such pesky little creatures was the use of mosquito repellant. But of course as one may guess right, it was meant to repell mosquitoes.
Soon our water bottles ran dry to the dregs. We had just sipped the last drops, even before reaching the summit of the mountain. In tones of sweatest echoes , 'Will' or Scholar as we called him, decided to head down to the stream to fetch us water. Much to his supprise, we objected as we thought it too tasking to head back a journey more than an hour to fetch water. But he persisted, and soon our team leader 'Frey' joined him . Perhaps they had heard whispers from above to do so, we dare not oppose them any longer, in any case we had little energy to argue.
After an hour or two, they retained, they had conquered -water alas! We took another of the now usual resting stops. We had what seemingly our final meal for the journey in the high noons. I feared our female folk would not bear to walk any further. Yet to my surprise, they kept a pace that I had struggled to maintain. I took deep breathes more often than not, often lagging behind.
The sun was beginning to set, shadows were lengthening, our every step was labored and wobbly. Night was fast approaching and we were no where in sight of our destination.  In what seemed like an open grass land, we sat down and perhaps lay down,  with bags as pillows. In almost vivid visions, one could appreciate the night of Jacob's  rest on his road while fleeing from his wrothed brother. The rock became to him a pillow of rest. Frey went on ahead, perhaps to confirm we had not taken a wrong turn. He later came back. While he was still a stone's throw away, we decided we would tell him set up camp for we were weary, worn and tired. Yet before we relayed the message, He motioned with a smile, I have found our site. With renewed zeal, we marched on. Yet it soon dawned on us that we still had to traverse the breadth of the little village before we actually could reach were we were heading to.
The night was upon us, deep darkness encroahed, we could barely perceive one another save a silhouette.  But as our hopes of ever reaching were at the dregs , a beam of light pierced through the darkness in the distance.  We had arrived. We were to set camp at a community school, close to the best lodging apparently. Water was drawn for us, and oh the cool feel it brought -the sweetest water one could probably drink! We had our even meal and retired to bed.
The following morning, with a few sprains over our bodies we prepared for the work we had come thus far for. We dared reach this far for a soul athirst for the gospel of Christ. We had primarily intended to set up clinic for three days with visits to the homes of the locals. We met with the local leadership, and they were quite open with us. They however, did make mention that the locals had apprehension of our being in their turf, and it would not be easy for us to freely interact with them, yet he gave us his word he would do his best to try and dispel that.  He motioned that many a man in the land had taken to the bottle. Drunkenness was a scourge that had taken root, and with that we didn't need much say, for we had seeing it with our own eyes. Men and seldom, women would gather in what seemed to be meetings of some sort, they were betrothed to intoxicating liquor as it were.
The first day of clinic was meagerly attended, but soon the medical aid that was being offered was soon noised far and wide, and perhaps the locals were beginning to trust us. Perhaps they understood we meant well. We soon realized we had little prepared to meet the needs of the people. For many had conditions amenable to medications that would have been available had we had prior knowledge.  I recall several young lads who apperntly had similar history of gross heamaturia (visible blood in urine), a high index of suspicion for schistosomiasis. Yet we lacked the proper testing kits and medical supplies for the same. Our hearts were broken as we saw them off with little help rendered.  We were informed that it was not uncommon for pregnant women to traverse the high mountains for several hours to reach the nearest health centre, a dread for many.
Perhaps the best sermon one may preach about Christ is living the very life of Christ. A loving and loveable ChristIan perhaps. A myriad of well spoken words, rightly concocted, orated may gather the applaause of a multitude, yet only the acts that stem from love will reach the soul's real desire, and draw men to Christ with cords, though invisible to many, firm enough to notice the wrought change.
Barriers were slowly being broken , reaching people in their homes was becoming less of a challenge. We would at times  be called to offer prayers with and in the behalf of families in their homes. We had come to create bonds with these people. Perhaps bonds leading to eternity. Though our days were short lived, an impact was indeed made.
Yes the water we drunk was obtained from water holes , a little like the scenes I witnessed in the series of 'untamed Africa ' -Serengeti, especially that we were so close to the national park, we loved it. It had a taste untainted by human machinations. Of course we had chlorinated it to avoid the unseen agents of diease. So perhaps we still did interfere with it a little. We slept on rather uncomfy 'beds' if I should call them, but the love and unity that existed among us would warrant a twitch on the cheek.
As the day of our departure approached, to meet up with other colleagues, we gave out a bounty of our food items and bedings/clothes to a few of the locals. We knew better than carry heavy loads on our journey back. Yet, beyond that, our bonds drew us to share the little we had. Mission work is reaching out to others Christ's way.

Running the mile.

I am not at most a sportsman. Every attempt at it befitting the title was purely for the fun of it. The almost perceptible galloping heart beat at a stone's throw away, the perspiration running down from the brow to the sole of the foot -vivifying an anointing for same, I presumed, the thundering or humming of the ground at every leap, and the the bout of endorphins that surge with every perfect hit or finish-perhaps this had a wooing code on me. The victor's applause, the regal affair or the gregarious tone -that didn't leave as much as a mark to imbibe.
Somehow nature was generous, for what I lacked in skill, I was granted in sheer luck. Or perhaps nature was playing tricks on me! With my poor track record, I should have earned myself the 'bench' or perhaps , embarrassingly for me, the cheer leading role or some down to earth title of 'boot'n ball carrier-water boy'. But neh, I was usually on the roll, with the exception of mere appathy, avolition or injury. Did I find myself in a pot of well-meaning friends ? Was I in a train of novices who could not at most tell the difference between the real deal and my 'uncouthed skill'? Well, the answer to that was anyone's guess, I dared not enter into a pity party-rounding up in a dirge.
My varsity years saw me fall in an unprecedented love for the 'chase after the wind'-paced running, otherwise, jogging. At first I started out as a loner. But I soon realized loners did not have enough will power and stamina bagged up to go far, and repeatedly too. The desire to go for the round was glorious -perfect vignette, yet 'gas' was often at zero to power up  my strides for another go. And as if in sympathy with my waning self, muscle cramps and and sole feet, tilted the balance to a ' No for today, tomorrow maybe, I owe none a run."
In a turn of fortune, if I should say, running the 'mile', as it were, became popular among my fellow students. Had someone scared them into it, or was it their acquired erudition that had bequeathed them to it? Well, whatever the case, it was a good gain for me. Soon I had an entourage of colleagues by my side-a perfect motif. Whenever a lad  would stoop low, ready to throw in the towel, I would call out to him in chants 'you've got this, you can do it' in a bid to grant him zeal anew.
I soon had an all-time all weather accomplice ,Tony, in the "mile' run, though really not a mile, for later measures revealed it was route of a little more than 5ks go-come. Now Tony had the build for the task, he bore the visage of a perfect sportsman. We paced ourselves on every run,with the bid to beat our record time ,yet with time we noted their was a time we could seldom beat without overtasking bone and muscle, and possibly will. Hence we aimed to simply maintain a good enjoyable paced run. I could almost begin to see his form trickling over me, but then again, running the 'mile' with a good pal, and a good pace was all that really mattered.

The Clock of time

There I was, in the city square. My form bore the semblance of a midget. The stack contrast. Every turn was met with ever rising towers, the architecture of great wits. I was helmed in by the towering heights. In a rare turn, a pegion or two would wing its way straight into the upwinding structures, for it could not tell the difference between the open air and the glass paned buildings. It would come down with a slight tumble and slum to the ground. Maimed, it would cease its flight, till nature wrought her healing touch, else it would have to await burial from natures civilized scavengers-cats and dogs.
With streets paved, lined with what seemed like an array of engineered firs , oaks, palms or spruce and weeping willows of perfect symmetry-a silvery avenue, the scene was just right for a cast. Jets of water shot into the sky from a central pool. Folks walked by, with little minding of the suround. Like an army of ants, moving in lines unbroken, they walked across the breath of the earth as it were. Delay was fatal. Vehicles too, moved in perfect array, any delay on one would warrant a horn blow-a resonance to a hum made by a swarm of bees in rage. So all had to move at speeds dictated by the majority. Every one had to be in some sort of hurriedness, at least for the sake of others if not for self.
On one of the skyscraping sttuctures hang a larger than life Gothic wall clock. It moved relentless. Perhaps it controlled the pace of the multitudes. But i took it all in, that which my eyes beheld, I needed to take a second look. Perhapds  I would gain insight. I stared long and hard at the clock, pera venture I would get entranced into what Eistein perceived-slowing of time with an increase in one's motion. Was it the reason for the great haste that was ensuing? Perhaps. Saddened for the lack of an Esiteinian moment, I resolved that I had my filed of play in a different arena. I bumped into a lad or two for the sights and beauties  that betrothed my eyes, but a thousand  apologies did the trick. Yet, had the mass gotten so used to the stack beauty, it no longer appealed to their taste? Or where the errands so great of import, they dared not waste a second to savour the moment?
Monuments that stood,dotted throughout the scape, some on roof tops, building entrances, middle of the square,and along side walks and within buildings too gother my attention. Some had a manly frame, others anything from a beast, to amoury. Sculptors of marble stone or metal. Each was rich in history, a story to tell. They dipicted themes of conflict-war in form of gallant soldiers, generals and military artillery , sometimes atrocious savagery, perhaps giving a backdrop that should never have a repeat for the current and future, or experiences  of the days ebbed. Some depicted the arts and siences, in the form of statues of men of renown in the same trade. There was a theme for every occasion it seemed.
The scenes before me wrought in me the realization that man was hardwired for eternity. Deep inside, we all desire to live forever. We leave the stage of life with great pains, save one whose belief grants him a hope of a life beyond the dreary depths -the grave. In a bid to evade the grip of mortality, men have inverted ways to prolong their stay in the arena. Futile ecsarpade. Perhaps in this one sense man has succeeded to gain imortality, the creation of statues, and perhaps the writing of books. For in them only are the lives of yesterday preserved for today. They live on for an eternity, as it were, in the minds of the living. Perhaps this too may explain the rush-folks have little time to achieve so much. Maybe those with fewer goals in life have it easy, warranting them a little more time to enjoy the short life here on earth.

The African Kitchen

In my travels I have come to appreciate the roots of my African homestead. I've had a little of the taste of the rural wade. All plain town mice? Ney! I've got patches of country on me. I recall the times I was full of energy,of course with very little meaningful direction. I was quite the tame lad-not outgoing, intrusive yet not aloof. Trouble never really got a hold of me, but when it did, pardon was ready to tap me on my shoulders-I wonder where it has all gone now. I enjoyed the company of the older folk, for they took many of life's blows aimed at me. Perhaps I was never my own responsibility.  Freedom from self? Perhaps
Days came by and left in a rush,with no itinerary for me. Duty was not always pleasant, and with time, I had learnt a few tricks of the trade, factitious behaviour -pretend to be ill, and you'll not only get waned from the task, you'll get yourself a 'sick child's treat. Of course time weeved in me the realization that falsehood was probably more like a boomerang, it always finds you out.
Getting dirty was like obsession, one couldn't help it. It ran it's course, till mom called for a bathe. What a dread it was. Peradventire one of the reasons a lad of my age then would stay squicky clean-the dread of mom's bathe. It was an ordeal-first you're dipped into the tab or basin, then came the ire of the soap. Finally, like a grinders machination, a rock of offense was latched to your body, grinding away every taint of dirt as it where. Yet the outcome was worth the process. All clean, you were the darling of the home. But all too soon the dirt called. Rainy season saw young rascals like myself venture on rather unwonted play-mud slide. One would stand at a distance, aim for the wet spot, and dash off in a frenzy and like an expert skier, slide over the rain kissed mud. A few bruises may be incured, but the price was little compared to the amount of endorphins released at the end of the escapade. Germs were then not common! Or at least they gave one the leeway to a little joy.
Every young lad was entitled to at least one occasion of a fall from a tree or breaking of a bone. I did not get the later, but the former.
The  best memoirs , however were to be found in the kitchen. Whether it be a little old smoking hut, or a modern array complete with switch ignited cooker, or semi modern with charcoaled braziers ,  the kitchen was as sacred to my stomach as the family alter to the soul. I watched as the fire was lit, the stove turned on-the heat was the one most important reactant in the equation. Pots rang out, knives squicked. The water was brought to the boil, pulses of corn meal (mealie meal)  were made-nshima. Rice , pasta and all other pastries were a reserve of the affluent, or holidays that doted the calender year. One dared not interrupt the queen of the kitchen as she majestically tentacled her hands on everything needed for the task. One risked facing her wrath, bolstered by her instruments of mass destruction -the cooking stick, the serving spoons and the frying pan or pot. Only get close if your hands were needed.
I watched as the onions were choped, the fumes from it got me soaked in tears, yet I stood my ground. She butchered the tender reds-tomatoes, and a few other secretes of the trade . Soon the whole kitchen was in a frenzy-sometimes the fried portions of delight would catch a flame- I would scream out-"fire!" yet in calmness , she would put it out. Sometimes it was simply a concord of grains, nuts-pounded and whole, and litany of other nitty grittis. The sweat on her brow testified to her efforts -non could gainsay. Soon the aroma would begin to permeate through the air. A growling of the stomach was a respone, yet one had to stay the trend just till the right moment. All marauders such as flies and roaches were unwelcome to the feast. They sure did know better than to mess with mamas cooking. Unless they were ready for the stake.
When all was done, a transformation occurred . The Warrior's armour was put off, the sweat marked brow now aglow. Her cheeks dimpled with love. And a smile of relief and tenders care. She walked pleasantly as it were a bride walking down the Isle ready to say 'I do' or a princess ready for coronation. The tables were set, well, the floor in any case. But it mattered little, whether we reclined on the table or sat with legs crossed on the less than marbled floor encircling a bowl or two of pudding , soup , pulse or any other delicacy. My greatest delight however was in the effort attached to the process. The meal was often meager, yet the love was seldom less than plentious. Non dared miss mom's meal. We all ate as one, and our white patched lips put on a new shine, complete with a smile.  Non would dig in before the cleansing rite-all hands had to be washed clean in a lava, as it were.
Belching was an unpardonable offence, yet we oft found ourselves committing it one too many times. The punishment was meted out-sentenced to dish washing.

A Wreathe of Friendship

The room was well lit for the occasion, perfect lighting gushed through the window, the long wavy curtains gave way to the enlivening rays of the sun. The rays ricocheted on our brows giving each one a golden glow. A rendezvous of three pals. We sat in the middle of the room as if poised for another scene take. We wore no make up to hide any marks or expressions on our visage. Coco and Rick gave a long stare at each other and then, as if in an epiphany turned to me. I wondered what transpired in a moment's look. Did I have low intelligence quotient for non verbal cues? They seemed to communicate in tones audible only to those with apt minds, it seemed. I dared for a moment not ask why the meeting was called for, but the silence that had permeated the room taunted me to speak. I knew Rick and Coco had voices tamed for singing, great vocalists. I, on the other hand, had not much of a voice to sing, save to talk-a lot at times. Nonetheless, I had a few tricks up my sleeves, or rather up my fingers with the guitar. So perhaps we had gathered to make some impromptu music. Coco soon pulled the cable, the tense feel was swept away . She had apparently arranged for this meeting. with the usual million dollar smile on her face, and a commanding yet mollifying voice, she took charge of the moment. She broke the ice. It was all clear when she uttered a few lines, 'I requested us to get together and have a little talk. We have something in common. We have all lost a great part of us.' Coco had lost her papa early on in life, Rick and I had suffered the same loss about a month ago.
For an instance, the scene changed-and that so abruptly. It seemed we had embarked on a whole new train. Where bright smiles stood, now rested creeses of a somber mood. Eyes begun to water up, and the once glowing cheeks were now lined by tear marks.  I dared not let any tear row down mine, for 'men don't cry' ,or so I thought. Well, I managed to maintain dry cheeks, yet the drooping somehow got my nose running. Efforts were made to abate the new scene. We somehow managed to swallow down the drip,and wipe away our tears, yet eyes still remained injected.
Coco's dad had had gastric cancer. He had sought medical services for quite a while before he was diagnosed with the dreaded malady. He demised soon after. Coco didn't put us in a dirge, nor did she gloss over her ablity to handle such a blow.
Rick's dad on the other hand had come down with prostate cancer. His life was quickly waning. The once strong manly frame was losing hold. Strength was sapped from him as in the heat of summer. All efforts to stay the scourge in his body proved futile. He lived just long enough to see his young lad reach 6th year of medical school.
On one Monday even time, after my daily rut of activity on the hospital ward, I received news that dad had just been rushed into theater. An exploratory lap'. Every patients dread. At dawn, at the first glimmer of light, a friend and I drove to the hospital. A few biopsy samples were obtained during the surgical procedure. I took the samples to the pathology laboratory. My medical erudition flooded my mind with many a postulation of a possible cause of his ailment. A portion of the 'ileocecal junction' (part of the small bowel) had been resected ,in addition to another sample from the stomach. I awaited the results for a gruesome fortnight, perhaps like Noah when he sent out the dove to survey the depth of the flood waters. During this period, it seemed his body was beginning to put up a fight against the offending insult, dad was starting to regain vigor. Mom, at his bedside was ever so tearful. Tears of apprehension interlaced with tears of hope for a better day.
The pathology results were in. I dared not venture to conjecture on the possibilities, for my mind somehow, like a campus  needle that always pointed northward, always ventured on the terrain of a worst case scenario. An acquaintance sent me the results. I quickly rushed to the report conclusion. It was normal tissue-no malignancy. Whew, a sigh of relief. I could now reduce my differentials to amenable conditions. However, much to my dismay, I was sent another report, which had, apparently, been left out mistakenly. Like a constant dripping on a rainy day, every statement I read was suggestive of a horrendous outcome. I felt like I held in my hands my dads sentence after trial. Gastric malignancy-widespread! And there was no court of appeal. The evidence could not be refuted. There was no amnesty. I recoiled, wondering whether it was appropriate to shade a tear, or somehow intellectualize away the diagnosis. In my coat, not of many colours, of plainest white, I strolled through the corridors,waded down staircases with my chin held high. I feared a low face or stoop would let loose the cords that held firmly the Pandora's box of tears.
I could not bare to tell him the lab report , so I carefully folded them and gave them to mom. I retorted, "all will be well." It was easy to clerk patients and spill out the diagnosis to them, of course in the kindliest way possible. Yet there was not an easy way to spell it out to the old man who lay before me. Paleness had begun to gather around his face, yet he spoke in tones accompanied by a faith so latched on to life, so incomparable to mine.
Dad was discharged. Had he found a balm so potent? He was scheduled for another date, about two fortnights away, for further examination and possible course of action . I had braced myself. Thoughts of a good outcome were entertained.
I needed some time to recuperate ,and what better to do so than heading out into the great outdoors. All packed up and ready for the voyage, a team of youths ventured out for a three day's  campout in the outskirts of a nearby town. Just what the doctor ordered!  The beautiful scenes of nature were a balm to my wearied soul. The site was complete with a hot spring-replete with ' A healing touch-a healing stream'. My lads and I couldn't let go of the opportunity to take a brisk bathe in it after a long day's hike in the open lands and thickets. How sweet it was for friends to be together, at peace. We prayed, worked and played, we laughed and we loved. As we were coming to the end of our little errand, a dark cloud hung over us. Rick's dad who had long been in hospital died. A sad turn indeed. our condolences ran out to him, yet the pain was felt deepest by him. We soon  returned to campus,   but like a quake that that could rip through the Richter scales or seismograph's measure, before his appointed date, dad passed away. Just about a day after Rick's dad. A dual tragedy. The curtains had dropped on both. Silence stilled the moment. Wreaths were laid, the dust settled, yet heavy hearts we bore still.
Now in the room, in the silence of the time, Coco wobbled her hands into her hand bag. She reached out for a lovely leather-back pocket sized book. A bible. She read a few verses from holy writ. Comforting words. In a turn of events, the air was soon permeated with a sweet fragrance as we found solace in each others company. Calamity is the sternest thing that may come our way, yet sometimes, in its trails may be found cords that weave lessons so precious in our lives.

Before I hang my stethoscope

Before I hang my stethoscope

Results were in, fingers were crossed (not literally though), hearts  raced with a pace unmatched, the pound was wrenching,sounds were hushed ,visual fields were suddenly reduced to tunnel vision ,yet acuity was returned,perhaps to keep all distruction out of sight. The moment of truth had come. Like the last penalty kip to be taken at the world cup finals, all 'earth' seemed to stand still,in awful silence, as if to have a glimpse of the moment before rolling by. The long awaited last  preclinical year results were in. In a turn of a second , everything that had taken  on a grayscale took on a new sheen. 'Clear pass' ,this statement bore great significance to every student. Somehow,all the sleepless nights, the headaches of meeting deadlines,the gruesome task of digesting and regurgitating information was embodied in this rather plain inscription. Climacteric? Definitely!  It mattered little,nontheless, if it had a prelude of  ' silent'-a bare pass,credit,merit or the appraised distinction. In the excitement, the frenzy, no one cared about the grade of the pass, perhaps until all had returned to baseline normalcy,and the dust had settled.
The great divide,the ravine had been crossed with success. Wreaths of victory were ours for the taking. A few were maimed along the way,some were relegated,and our hearts would go out to them in tenderest pity. We dared not jest, deride or look with scorn at their estate, for all things,whatsoever they be, do happen in the stream of time for a reason. And who dares to insult reason! I have fed my eyes on a passage in holy writ that reads thus,' And we know that all things work together for the good to those who love God...'* We would hung as it were,our harps by the banks and cease to sing the songs of the homeland when met with one who would have enlisted in our joys,yet chance allowed him not the privilege. Our only consolation was the rolling of time. The remedy of time, non can comprehend. There is balm in the passage of time, we had come to learn. Scars it may return, but a balm nontheless.
The stethoscope, few understand it's significance. Many associate it with the practice of medicine and it's technicalities ,and rightly so. Yet one who has ventured through the rigorous training of medical school will understand that it goes beyond the practice, the diagnoses, or indeed the heart beat. It is a relic with ethos , a gourd of the experiences one has had, it is a symbol of the fraternity. All wrapped up in a 'leathery' black casing,or in silvery dull gray or indeed any other form,elegant or simple,decorated or plain, the stethoscope, a quintessential gift fit for a servant of the land, a servant of the common and nobbleman. It encapsulates the art and science to be found in medicine.
With the joys slowly abating,I begun to realize I ,like my corhorts, had just entered new enchanted territory. Things were about to take a new turn. That which we had to imagine to be real, we now had to imagine it was feinged. Patients were discussed,thought of,as cases to loose their individuality ,perhaps to save us the misery of attachement. Dummies did not cry or flinch in pain, blood was as good as your imagination would take you. Every aim at canulation was a straight hit, never to miss a vessel, no precious fluid wasted, no ounce of blood lost. A torniquet could be left tied with no risk of injury. There was no mistake too grave, no misshap fetal. But not so in the emergency unit, on the wards, in the treatment room or the theatre bed.
Like soldiers who with excitement  receive their armoury and with a sudden gust of bravery rush for the attack and soon realise the perils involved, we saw life in a different light. At first we walked the corridors with 'steths' hanging round our necks, or cartridged somewhere as a bodily appendage where one need not ask whether or not you were part of the 'nobility'. Seniors would often have theirs tucked away somewhere as if to conceal their identity. Once in a while , it would be exposed to perform the ritual of patient examination, afterwhich it was back in the marsupial pouch. I saw this to be strange. Who would want to hide the very thing that sets one apart from all others?
somehow, the steth,togetehr with the white court seemed to have a force of attraction that I just didn't understand. Walking in the isles, in between bays, patients would glare at me, as if to whisper in tones heard only by my heart. "Doctor!doctor! the calls would ring out. I would often rush to look for one, for it took me quite some time to realise  I was the 'doctor' . Yet my fears prevented me from engaging to close. I witnessed my consultants and other senior stuff perform resuscitaions, but I dared not be the last person the patient saw before his/her demise. Soon It dawned on me that others trusted me more than my mind could comprehend, more than my self confidence could allow.
Soon I realise  my fear to fail would probably see more people helpless than my failure after an attempt. I took my apprenticeship seriously. At least to my best of ability.  Like my colleagues ,I was an ardent student. A disciple of the forerunners , as it were. We followed through the daily rut. With our hairs on end at every turn, we were on the receiving end of another's  labile mood.
At first, we were all engrossed in trying to find the book fitting case. One who found a classical case of meningitis, syphilis, down syndrome, Steven Johnson syndrome, or typhoid or the endless list of syndromes somehow felt the tinge of cloud 9.  We would often grunt in discontentment when a patient was discharged before the case was presented to the class or consultant. Our desire to learn seemed to overshadow our sympathies. We could barely recall the names of the patients, yet seldom would we forget their ailment. Had we suddenly lost sight of our high calling? Had we become seered?
When faced with death, we interlectualised it,we explained the cause so as find reason to accept it's occurence. Nothing was to be left to the grip of chance. When helping a mother bring forth new life, we wore straight faces,and only smiled to show the mother all was well. If the first breathes turned to paleness, we did the ritual of lifesaving. If death ensued, we closed the case, and in learnt acts of simpathy, we counseled the patient. The irony ,so disconnected from the patient yet so intricately close.
The beauty of the ward, seeing one who was at the edge, ready to ebb away in utter nothingness,  to remain no more in the land of the living, leave the bay with a dance of victory. Death evaded, perhaps to meet with it another day. Everytime one gets his/her hands and, upon consent of the patient, places them on the patients body, something happens that only the doctor and patient may understand.  The patient feels the hands as messengers of hope, an assurance of life without ills. The doctor gently awaits communication through the palms perhaps what his eyes fail to see, the hands will feel, providing a little more information about the one who holds him in high esteem. What the hands fail to appreciate, the aided ear is implored. The stethoscope is placed upon the expectant patient. The body seems to writhe in malady, yet a rythym audible enough to help put the pieces together.
There was always a temptation to think  I knew everything. I always had an answer to a patient's qerry. But I learnt that I always needed the hand of another, the ear of a colleague, the thought of a senior or peer. But one needed to know his tool and use it wisely, before it is hung . Hung around the neck.