Julius Shukrani, a catering student, joined us in MTI on the celebration day of Father Chaminade, the founder of the Marianist. He was dubbed Chaminade, it stuck for the entire school year. Julius is 24 years old, the second born of five children. He is a bodaboda (motorbike) driver on Saturdays and Sundays so he can earn money for school fees. He lives with his mother, two younger brothers, and sister back in a mud and stick house in an area I have not been able to visit (as I am told not to go alone). I could tell he was extremely poor by the clothes he wore, but I always admired how respectful he was to me.
Every so often, the students are met at the gate by the sister who is in charge of the Social work office, sending away those who were behind on school fees. He was sent away, along with many others, but he did not return after a couple weeks. I asked a couple students to contact him to see if he was alright and they would tell me yes, but still he did not return to school. I finally found another student who told me he lives next to him, so I told him to come to my place.
He came to my place that night and I learned that he no longer could live at home and was now renting a room and could not earn enough for rent and school fees. I informed the assistant director of the situation and he agreed to pay all the remaining fees. Since then, our relationship has changed and I believe he views me differently than just as his instructor.
He had a head injury two weeks ago playing football and the pain began to worsen over the next few days. I gave him a supply of Tylenol, but that only worked a short while. He asked if I could lend him 2000 shillings ($20) for a scan. No fracture, but the pain just worsened. He went for another scan that cost 5000 which he scraped up from friends. Later that day he called and said, “sir, I am very weak and scared." I told him to go to the clinic next to the school. Shortly after he arrived, the doctor called me and said that he needs to get to a city hospital immediately.
I informed the assistant director who was now at home, grabbed my credit card and backpack, then flew out the door to the clinic. There, I found him on a cot shouting in pain and rocking back and forth. His mother was patting his head and chest as they shouted out in prayer to baba over and over. The Baptist preacher came in and prayed over him. Another student, Stewart, was at Mass and viewed Shuki going into the clinic, so he left Mass to assist him. I was beginning to become afraid myself with the thought of this young man dying. In the meantime, Bro. Joseph had coordinated the school pickup with a mattress in the bed, a driver, and away to the hospital we went.
I put the mother in the cab, and I joined the pastor, Stewart, and the doctor from the clinic who was kind enough to come along with Shuki, in the bed of the truck. It was dusk, rush hour, and I could hardly see through all the dust and smoke from the trash being burnt along the roadside. We were stuck in jam after jam, thousands of people moving about the traffic. It was quite an experience, viewing what was going on, and then I realized how venerable I was. I stick out like a sore thumb and white people are viewed here as wealth and money. I pushed a leg into the strap of my backpack which held my wallet and passport to secure it. I took a moment to acknowledge that I would be under the protection of God.
As I secured the sheet placed over Shuki, I saw a tear rolling out of his right eye.
We backed the truck up to the emergency room entrance and slid him onto a gurney and into the large emergency room. We were in a government hospital and the conditions were not favorable, blood on the floor, people walking about, and rusty equipment, but the doctor on duty was attentive though he must have had 30-40 patients.
Shuki’s uncle came and then two of his brothers and a sister. We were shifting in and out from the waiting area to the emergency room. By midnight, we were taking turns lying on the metal benches trying to get some rest. I closed my eyes to rest a bit, knowing that I would be bitten by the mosquitoes in this open-air area, but I again was able to turn to God and trust he would protect me. I was not in the place I wanted to be and wanted to go home, but that would not be possible for me to be out at night. I needed to go home, because I had early morning plans the following day. But I could actually be thankful for being a part of this and witnessing all that was going on around me. There were people sleeping all over the ground outside, casualties coming in and out, and three people died next to Shuki while in the room. The oldest brother sat next to me and said “you must have a strong heart to be here,” and that was about all the communication I had with them the entire 10 hours (because the rest was spoken in Kiswahili). I was happy that Stewart was present as he speaks English somewhat.
By 2:00am, after being administered medications, he was sitting up. The doctor reviewed his earlier scan and said he looked fine. As we were leaving the hospital, Chaminade said that he would spend Saturday resting and Sunday in church. He had stopped attending church.
On Saturday, we were texting a bit and his final message to me was, “eeeh, sorry for what happened yesterday." My response to him was, “sorry for what? For me, witnessing you coming back to church…for seeing a lovely family…for me, I was blessed…so what is it you are sorry for?”