He. Just. Sewed. Me.

Senegal, July 2016. Some time in the morning.

On that midsummer day, the heat was unbearable, as usual, close to 50 Celsius degrees. I cannot remember the exact date, but this day was different than my usual ones. I, along with four of my colleagues from Québec (B, C, L and LA), was going to spend the day in the town of Kaolack in order to have access to a (poor) internet connection, and purchase some necessities for the village. We were waiting for the bus in front of the market, violently waving our fans at each other to get some sense of coolness. The bus was late, as always, but we were all together, telling jokes, extremely happy to go on our little bi-monthly African expedition.

After an hour of waiting outside under the warm sun, heavily sweating, we saw our bus- the only one!- approaching. As usual, it was more than crowded inside, but we had gotten used to that small problem. One by one, my comrades climbed in through the back door while I was closing the march. The bus was infect, it smelled horribly bad, there were four to five people sitting on benches for two, there were hens and goats… the usual!

I have to make a quick parenthesis here for those of you who are not familiar with West-African “buses”. There is a door at the back, it is really high and hard to reach. Inside, the rows of benches are full, which means you have to lift the middle part of a row in order to get to the next one (that is an important detail). There are small windows that do not provide any kind of proper aeration, which means that people sitting inside are almost boiling. These buses always run out of gas or break apart (literally) during a trip, so you need to be patient. The roads are also quite dangerous, which means that a 30-minute trip sometimes ends up lasting hours and hours.  

Back to my story now: as I was lifting one bench in the middle of a row, it slipped out of my wet hands, and fell on my leg. No big deal? Yes, but the thing is that the bottom of that bench consisted of metal borders, one of which was hanging, ready to fall. Oh, and that goddamn metal piece was sharp… like dagger-sharp. See where I am going?

Anyway, my thigh was hurting badly – normal! – but I did not make a case out of it. I was just happy to have found a place to sit near my friends, and that my tetanus shot had been redone before my departure from Canada. When I sat down, I noticed that my pants were ripped. Okay. My thigh was really, but really hurting. Hmm. I thought to myself: it can’t be that bad, eh? So, slowly and carefully, I lifted the right leg of my pants, afraid someone would notice (the village was a very conservative Muslim one, so showing my bare legs was unacceptable behaviour). Still, I lifted my pants, and at that exact moment, I realized what had happened to me. There was only a small amount of blood, which usually is a good sign- it was not.

The thing is that I was badly cut. I do not want to get into too many details for those of you who are sensitive to those kinds of medical situations, so let’s just say that my thigh was majorly severed. The laceration was extremely deep, I could see the different layers of skin. I could see inside my leg. So, as one does, I panicked. I turned white, I began to sweat more than I could imagine possible (who knew we hold that much water inside), and I fought hard not to pass out. I was nauseous and dizzy. I was dying. Yes, I am a melodramatic person, but that was a serious injury; I was in a filthy bus with hens and goats, the inside of my body was exposed, hell yes I was freaking out.

I turned to B, one of my colleagues. In desperate need of reassurance, I showed him my wound. He looked at it, looked at me, looked at it again, and went silent. Not a good sign. He whispered something to our other friend, L. She looked at my leg, turned green, and almost fainted too. Great. I still asked them to help. I had my first aid kit with me, maybe that could do the trick. (Yes, I am incredibly naive as well).  

So, as L was on the verge of passing out, she switched places with C, always stoic in those types of situations. C and B opened the kit, talking to each others like they were surgeons trying to come up with a plan to save my right thigh. They tried to put bandages, plasters, gauze… nothing was working. I was soaking wet. Nothing would stick on my leg, and our bandages were too small, and quite frankly not appropriate for that kind of emergency. They finally put some gauze on the wound and duct-taped my leg. I looked like a sad cheap robot.

The ride, luckily, only lasted an hour and a half. In Kaolack, we did not know how to deal with that situation. We did not have phones or acquaintances who lived nearby. We asked people if there was a hospital in the area… no. We knew there was one downtown. But it was about an hour of walk from the busy bus station. Still, we had no choice. Painfully, I walked with my four colleagues. My pants were torn, wet and bloody, I had a duct-taped leg, was in a lot of pain, and the heat was getting stronger and stronger as it was almost noon.

We finally reached the “hospital”. Yes, “hospital”, because I have no words to describe that place. It was dirty, there were people dying (or dead) on the ground. We were near the end of Ramadan, which always leaves a lot of casualties. LA and I walked to the front desk. I showed my leg to the two ladies who were working there. The women seemed disgusted, still they took the time to compliment me on the henna I had on my feet and hands, and walked me to a small room where there was (supposedly) a doctor, and (surely) a little more than a dozen patients.

I sat on a bloody bed. There were flies and soiled needles everywhere. My friend was not allowed to stay with me. I wanted to cry, but was trying to be a strong,  independent woman. A man came to see me. I think he was the doctor, but still to this day, I am not sure. He could have been the janitor, who knows! He was wearing a blue t-shirt, dirty jeans, and no gloves. He asked how my injury happened, I told him, he laughed. Nice. Then he put his finger in my wound. Why? He looked at me, opened a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and poured it on (and in!) my thigh. I, once again, almost passed out. The pain! Oh, the pain! He then proceeded to tell me that I needed stitches. Nervously, I asked him if he was going to anesthetize me. He looked at me, clueless, and said: “Well, I just did.”

What? The alcohol was the local anesthesia? Good. This was a nightmare. I did not want to get stitches without my leg being numb, but I did not have a choice. I wished I, at least, had an Advil  or any type of pain-killer. But no. The doctor left the room to get his tools, and a fly landed on my wound. Why was this happening? Was that a bad omen?

The doctor/janitor finally came back, still gloveless, with a trail of hooks and needles. Shyly, I asked: “Is this gonna hurt?” Calmly, he answered: “Yes.”

You know how usually doctors and nurses and dentists tell you that it won’t hurt, or that it will pinch a little to comfort you? Yes, well, that one then just proceeded to tell me numerous times that I was going to experience a lot of pain and that I was not allowed to cry. Awesome. He then said: “Rokhaya, now be strong and pray Allah.”

Fuck.

Again, I will spare you the details. Let’s put it that way: He. Just. Sewed. Me. I was in such a state of agony; my muscles so contracted, that one of my contact lenses flew out of my eye. It was an experience. I still do not know how I managed not to scream, although I was grunting. I came out of that hospital emptied, tired, but feeling very brave (and a little nauseous).

I spent the rest of the day with my friends who were extremely patient and kind. They did not mind to stop walking and sit on the ground with me when my leg hurt too much. They did not look away when I needed to change my wet bandages and needed assistance. I am very blessed that they were by my side.

Nowadays, when I think about that hot July day, I feel proud. I, who usually freaks out at the thought of a blood test or a dentist appointment, got sewed together by a gloveless doctor in a bush hospital. I learned that I was much braver than I thought. To this day, I have a cool scar, and a great story to tell when people ask me how I got it. I’m such a badass.