10 Hours, One Doctor, & A Man Yelling About Masks

A Day in a Kenyan Public Hospital

We don’t expect to have sick people at home. That’s not how we imagine our days starting. We make plans — responsible adult plans — with illusions of control. “I’ll drop by the market, pick up a few things, maybe check on them after lunch…” That was me, right before life reminded me that control is a myth and the real planner is the one above.

We had been seeking medical support for a close family member who had been unwell. After visiting a couple of private facilities, the verdict was clear: “You need to see a cardiologist.”

Which is how we ended up at the public hospital at 7 a.m., trying to beat the crowd.

Plot twist: the crowd had already beaten us.

There was already a thick line of patients outside, some holding plastic files, others clutching their chests, their children, or their faith. Then came the first unexpected twist of the day — a stern-looking doctor, who appeared like a drill sergeant from a medical bootcamp. Without much conversation, he began to "clear" the line.

And not gently.

“Mama, mtoto si minor? Toka kwa line. Wewe kaa huko  mbali.”

It didn’t matter whether you came early or had an emergency. If you weren’t in the right category, off you went. But interestingly — the line moved. We watched in disbelief as order, chaos, and hospital policy danced a tango. Somehow, our turn came, and we were officially in the system.

We saw the general doctor, who scribbled out a series of lab tests and scans, including an Echo. We were sent off on a medical scavenger hunt.

That’s when the waiting truly began.

The lab process took three hours. Three solid hours of watching people come, collapse, cry, complain, and be wheeled past. At some point, I made friends with a woman who had been carrying her patient’s urine sample like a delicate handbag. We were united in exhaustion.

Then came the issue of payment for the Echo — we needed to pay via SHA.

The staff informed us, without blinking: “SHA ita-register saa nane.”

SHA. This mysterious system that comes alive not with the rising sun, but with the clock’s mercy. It was barely 12 p.m., but we were now expected to wait until 2 p.m. because…that’s when SHA wakes up, apparently.

So we went back to wait for the lab results. That’s when he arrived.

A man with righteous fury and no sense of volume. He marched into the hospital like he was auditioning for a role in Mother-In-Law and went straight for the idle security guards standing at the door.

“Munavaa tu mask hapa! Hamsaidii watu!” he shouted, arms flailing.

The guards tried to calm him down, but he was beyond their reach. He screamed louder, hitting the air and possibly someone's clipboard in the process. The entire waiting area froze, but then, slowly, people began to laugh. Because what else do you do when life is absurd and you're holding a patient file that's now your third pillow?

Then — the highlight — he declared himself hospital inspector.

“Niambieni, nani aliingia hapa mapema? Niko hapa kuwasaidia.”

I promise you, he started walking around like a lost county official. “Wewe ulifika saa ngapi?” “Na wewe?” “Wapi huyo daktari?” It was surreal. And somehow… therapeutic. A moment of ridiculous lightness in an otherwise weary room.

Eventually, our lab results came out. We trudged back to the general doctor, papers in hand.

It was approaching 7 p.m.

Seven. P. M.

The sun had gone, my energy had been auctioned off, and my back was bargaining for a refund. But finally, the doctor gave us medication.

And yet — plot twist number three — we weren’t done. We still had more tests to do before we could see the cardiologist.

But we were used to it by now. One more queue? Sawa. Another delay? Tulia. By then, we were not just patients’ family — we were honorary hospital staff.

Still, through all the drama, noise, queues, and questionable chairs, we saw a system struggling but surviving. One doctor, twelve stretchers, chaos, courage — and a few moments of unexpected laughter.

To whoever that man was: inspector wa watu wa mask, you gave us a break in the madness. May your energy never run out.

In the end, it wasn’t just about blood tests and prescriptions. It was about witnessing the fragile thread that holds our public health system together — the overworked doctors, the tired mothers, the unexpected comedians, and the quiet endurance of it all.

Some days remind you just how much strength it takes to care, to wait, and to keep showing up.

Even in the chaos, there is community. And sometimes, even laughter.

Have you ever spent a long day in a public hospital? What stood out for you — the waiting, the characters, the unexpected laughter, or the quiet frustrations?

👇🏽 Share your experience in the comments. I'd love to hear how your day at the hospital unfolded.