Philippe Fournier had been working on his plan for days.
At its heart was a need to impress a young Italian nurse called Mara, so he’d invited her to join him for a Saturday drive in a rented Jeep to the small town of Kijabe, fifty kilometres outside Nairobi.
It was supposed to be a weekend treat away from work at the Kenyatta National Hospital and a chance to distract Mara away from a group of other foreign students there to learn about tropical diseases.
It was also a chance for Philippe to explain more about the work he was doing on HIV treatment and prevention. “This is not just for the
benefit of Kenyans,” he had told her when they first met. “My work is for the good of all Africa. This is a seat of excellence.”
Having left France and England to pursue his childhood ambition to return to his roots and work in Africa, Philippe liked talking about work. He also liked to mention the low pay that came with it and was sure that Mara, even as a foreign student on a short-term assignment, earned more than he did. It was very upsetting.
Philippe had visited Kijabe once before with a group of laboratory technicians and in a minibus. This time, he was to be alone with Mara without the bus driver or the tour guide. Fifty kilometres was no great distance, but he hoped it might give Mara a feeling of being on a sort of romantic safari. It would also be quick to return home if things turned out well.
And so, they set off, with Philippe nervously initiating small talk about work in a style that probably was not as exciting as Mara might have hoped for.
“I don’t just work in the laboratory,” he said. “My job is to find more multi-sectoral and multi-disciplinary partners to reduce HIV
transmission, to mitigate the impact of HIV and AIDS on vulnerable populations.” Mara didn’t react, so he added that it was, especially focussed on training and ways to convey information and advice.
Throughout this laborious explanation, Philippe even used a few Italian words mixed with English. It was an impressive effort, but Mara still seemed more interested in watching the passing scenery through the yellow and cracked plastic window of the old Jeep.
Nearing Kijabe, though, he finally got around to describing where they were actually going. Kijabe, he explained, was Masai for “place of the wind.” It stood on the edge of the great rift valley and was over two thousand metres above sea level. “And it has a railway station,”
he said, glancing at Mara.
When Philippe glanced back, he found that he was close to killing a Masai farmer and his cow wandering in the middle of the road, but he swerved and then made amends. “Sululu,” he called out to the farmer in the hope that Mara was also impressed by his Swahili.
At last, Mara spoke. “Where does the train go?” she asked.
Philippe beamed at the sudden show of interest. “Uganda one way and Mombasa the other,” he replied enthusiastically before remembering a poem he’d read somewhere. “What it costs, no words can express. Where it starts from, no one can guess Why it’s there, no brain can suppose. Where it goes, nobody knows.”
Mara was still looking through the window, but perhaps, Philippe thought, her English wasn’t quite up to his humour.
“And there is a mission hospital,” he said, hoping that something about hospitals might be more interesting. “And a guest house for those who are lost or delayed or those who decide to stay the night,”
he added with another sideways glance.
Philippe, though, had not reckoned on there being a problem at Kijabe Station. A train had arrived, but its driver, fifty-six-year-old Samson Omwenga, had taken ill. At Kijabe, he had finally given up trying to cope with the utter exhaustion, the sore throat, the dizziness, and the dry cough that made his head throb. Samson had almost fallen from his engine, collapsed onto the ground, and announced, between more coughing, that he felt so weak that he was unable to continue.
When Philippe and Mara arrived to view the historic station, someone had just phoned the hospital for a doctor. Meanwhile, the passengers were standing around, discussing the aptness of the train’s other name, the Lunatic Express.
Parking the Jeep next to a stretch of muddy red water, Philippe jumped out and was immediately approached by someone in a uniform, asking if he was the doctor. Being black but with his parents’ Cameroonian features, Philippe felt honoured to be mistaken for a Kenyan medical doctor, though his PhD was only in microbiology.
“Yes,” he said. “I am a doctor, but I’m not a medical doctor. I work at the Kenyatta National Hospital. What is the problem?”
The stationmaster ushered Philippe towards the station waiting room, leaving Mara struggling to leave the Jeep without falling in the mud.
In the waiting room, a wooden bench had been acquisitioned as a
temporary bed for Samson. With Philippe still trying to confirm his non-medical qualifications, the circle of onlookers surrounding the sick driver parted to allow him to approach.
“This is our senior engine driver Samson Omwenga,” said the stationmaster.
“Yes, but I’m not . . .” Philippe said as Samson coughed violently. He was sweating profusely, his eyes were red and puffy, and his breathing was heavy. Philippe immediately thought of viral pneumonia.
“This is the doctor,” the stationmaster said to Samson without getting too close.
“But I’m not . . .” Philippe repeated, and Samson’s eyes opened, as if it was his last breath. Philippe stared down at him. It was obvious the man was running a very high temperature and Philippe, who had seen patients with AIDS, saw the look of fear in his eyes. “He needs to go to hospital, sir,” he said.
“Do you not have some medicine for him? The train is late.”
“Sir,” said Philippe, “this man is very sick. He can hardly breathe. He has a very high temperature. Just look at him. He has no strength—
certainly not enough to drive the train to Nairobi, let alone onwards to Mombasa. He needs a proper doctor. But I am only a—”
“Can you take him to the hospital, sir? We have too many passengers here, and they all think he will be OK soon. And we do not have a qualified replacement. If you take him away, they will see that the train will be delayed.”
Mara finally arrived. “This is Mara,” said Philippe.” “She is a nurse from Italy. I will ask her what she thinks.”
Minutes later, Philippe had abandoned his well-laid plans and was driving back to Nairobi with Mara still staring silently out of the window and the train driver Samson coughing, shaking, and groaning on the back seat. Later that evening he called the hospital to enquire about Samson Omwenga. “He was in intensive care,” said the nurse in charge.
“Was?” Philippe asked.
“Yes, sah. He died two hours ago.”