My son lost half his foot in circumstances we’ve failed to understand
By Kipchirchir Kiprop
| November 8th 2016
It had been a fine Sunday until we received a call from unknown number. We had just come from church, or rather driven the family to church which meant I’d have to attend the service. It’s my belief that the servants of God only act as an intermediary between man and God only where there was offerings. Just take a look at the filthy rich servants of God and the congregants! Sharp difference, right? Being a man who respects others inalienable right to worship, I even have the courtesy to drive them to church as well give my granddaughter a few coins to contribute to the pastor’s overseas trip coffers.
Back to the call. We were sipping orange juice after a light lunch when the phone suddenly buzzed on the table. My granddaughter rushed to see who was calling and quickly announced that it was a new number. I wasn’t bothered since I had been accustomed to such kind of calls, some bearing good news and a few bad news.
The caller introduced himself as the caretaker of the place I had rented for my son. He told me that my son was injured, right in his house.
“Have you taken him to the hospital?” I had asked surprised.
“We are on the way,” the caller assured me.
“What’s the course of the injury?” I asked inquiringly.
“He says he woke up with a missing foot,” the caller replied mirthlessly.
I broadcasted the news to the family. They were a little shocked and then anger at how someone would wake from his sleep with a missing foot. Half of it. Being the caring parents we were we traveled all the way to Nairobi the same day. Thank God Nakuru isn’t as far.
We got to Nairobi and the hustle of looking for where he stays started. He had moved to another place. Trouble with university students is looking for the cheapest places to live, as insecure at it may be. With the money they save from us they spend on alcohol. What can be more stupid than that?
He directs us to one very deplorable building in Ngara, reeking with stench from a nearby dump site. We find him cramped in a small room that could barely accommodate a bed.
Sure enough he was injured and with a half of his foot missing. He stuck to his story that he woke up with a missing foot. He didn’t feel anything just woke up and alas! He didn’t have a part of his foot. And it wasn’t prosthetic. That one someone would just remove it and perhaps sell it. But it was attached to him, bones and veins. And blood.
I wasn’t sure whether to berate him for the explanation for the circumstance that led to the disappearance of his foot (and painfully at that) or the squalid conditions which I didn’t pay for. To everybody, it appeared to be a blatant cover-up for some fishy dealings he had been into. For all I could care he could have staked his foot on a bet and lost, tried to sell his soul to the devil and the devil asks for a down payment or a prove of his seriousness. It could be anything. It seemed justified to me and lost all the remorse a parent is supposed to feel for their blood.
The other day the media was awash with university students who died while travelling to have fun or something close to it. Two daughters of a single mother perished. It made wonder where our kids go when they aren’t studying on weekends. Those who are lucky to get out alive, or with a mystery missing foot, don’t want us to know.
My sons foot still remains a mystery, may be something he will tell his grand-kids if the devil doesn’t come for his body too soon.
To all university students please take care.
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