Fear is a Retarded Chicken

Of Sibling Love and the Package That Is Coated With Responsibility…

This week, my parents decided to visit their parents, thus leaving my siblings and I home alone for the week. No, there were no burglars and no, I did not get to blow off someone’s head with a flaming blowtorch, much to my dismay. Something terrible did happen though, my younger sister sliced her finger clean with a panga. Luckily, it didn’t fall off; otherwise this story would have been quite different. You’re probably wondering why, in the downloadable food century, anyone would be using a panga but here in my home, my village, we use firewood sometimes. And the moment her pain laden scream pierced the mid morning air, I could have sworn I couldn’t feel my heart beating. It had must have stopped to listen too.

Then she raced through the door, I think she was coming to me for help but she didn’t make it past the doorway before her knees gave way and she sat there, wailing as I rushed to her side. I didn’t know how deep the cut was because the blood gushing out was turning my head in cartwheels. I loathe the sight of blood and its metallic smell makes me want to throw up. I was a nervous wreck and I tend to think the main reason she was crying was the fear of losing a finger, while still below drinking age. But because I was the eldest, I had to channel my inner Florence Nightingale and cover up her finger to curb the bleeding and get her to the dispensary. Thing is, the moment I found the bandage, I tied it with my eyes almost closed since the last time I ever saw that much blood was when my dad was going Wepukhulu on a chicken. I was also afraid that in my act of playing nurse, I would succumb to the increasing urge to puke, which we know would have made the situation worse. Then we went to the dispensary, and she was still bleeding and my mind was still haywire.

For obvious reasons, we had to ‘cut’ the queue and get in. Because she was also a ball of nerves, she asked me to go into consultation with her. My pleas for polite declines are quickly thwarted by her stream of tafadhalis and some fear filled tear drops. The doctor is stone cold serious and for the first time since the scream, I felt my heart, and it was giving Usain a serious run for his money, literally.  Two or three questions later, he asked her to lie on the little bed. Then he got one of those tin tins with weird looking scissors and other dangerous looking Ben Carson paraphernalia. Suddenly, am looking for stars during the day and am wishing to God and everything that’s Holy that I should be anywhere but there. But am the first born, and it is taking all of me to hold in the nausea that has tripled after I smelled the disinfectant and sickness of the hospital air.

Funny, there is a leaflet lying on the doctor’s table, for some kind of medicine called Vomitin, my normal self would be damned before she pops any pills going by a name that nauseating but at that time, the not-normal me  was scanning the room to see if there were any. I was snapped back into reality by Dr. Stone Cold’s crude joke of whether I could hold my sister down while he did the stitches. He must have noticed my jaw hanging on hinges because he muttered a “just kidding” and injected her with some local anesthesia before proceeding to do the stitches.

As you have come to learn, raw muscle and blood are not my most favorite of sights so you can imagine my vain activity of trying to look anywhere but the picture of stitch being woven into skin. None was available so I ended up reading the ingredients of, drum roll please, Vomitin. Then came the tetanus injection and by Jove, I cannot handle the view of brandishing needle piercing into skin. I know it was snap job that could be over before I said Jehovah Wanyonyi but I just couldn’t look. She’s ok now but heavens know I do not wish to go through anything like that ever again.

The point of the whole story is the load that comes with being a first born, or having siblings below you. They never get to know some of the sacrifices we make to keep them happy. Sometimes it’s evitable but the sense of responsibility in you is greater. Because the moment we let the bond slip, Cain and Abel happens.

They will not always be appreciative of what we do for them, what chunk of our lives we drop sometimes so that we can be there for them or some of the choices we opt not to make so that they follow the right path but we always know that even if they act stupid and crazy, they still look up to us for a lot of things. So be sure the path you make is the right one, and even if you make mistakes, share them with them to help them avoid them.

Ps: am keeping of any sharp objects, in case the unlucky blood vibe is still lurking around.