Kihembo

The pink ribbon should say something to me.

It should tell me to go for the cancer screening that that anchor woman on TV keeps talking about. I see her wear pink and ask us all to go be checked and i wonder if she has a clue as to what she really is saying. She probably doesn't. Her life is probably as perfect as the shoes and clothes she wears. No creases, nothing out of place. Every time i see her, i wonder how it is that certain people can have it all and others can have none of it at all.

I have never really been one to care about the women on TV. It is just that now, lately, i see it all. I see the little detail, the one that i shouldn't see. I look out for the things that are so carefully hidden that you have to be looking for them to see them and even then, you need a magnifying glass, a magnifying glass that is your own life.

The woman says she is going to wear a pink ribbon all month. They are sticking ribbons to the daily newspapers and every time i walk out of this particular supermarket, a girl that looks like she would rather be home reading a magazine, hands me a ribbon.

I do not think they understand what that ribbon really means.

I was sitting at that balcony, the one that faces the gate, smoking my cigarette and trying hard not to cough. I had just recently taken to the habit, not because i liked it, but because there was a handsome white man who lived on the far end of the parking lot and he had a clear view of my balcony from his. He often came out to smoke as he spoke on phone. So there i was, in my good white shorts and pink tank top, bright red lips, book and cigarette in hand.

I saw Kihembo walk through the gate and walk quietly toward me. She, my bubbly, full of life friend, was struggling to hold back tears. Normally, she would be laughing and shouting her greetings from the gate and running across. I stood up and went round to open the door. She collapsed in my arms the minute she walked in and then she rolled into a little ball on the floor, rocking from side to side. I sat on the floor, hands clasped together and waited.

It was 5pm when she spoke. I remember because music was playing from my laptop and that computer generated voice i called Suzie, liked to remind me of the time at the top of each hour. Kihembo spoke so softly, if i hadn't been attentive, i wouldn't have heard.

"Kai, I have Cancer."

And then she sat up and wiped her eyes and stared at me.

What do you do when your best friend, tells you they have cancer and then stares you straight in the face? What do you do when you know that she expects you to have a thing to say because you are always the one person with the right things to say? What do you do when you cannot find the words?What do you do when the tears that have been building up start to pour?

"Kai,... Kai, i have cancer." She repeated it slowly as the tears started to pour again. She held my hand to her left breast and held it there. She had answered the question i couldn't ask. I still could not speak. I was staring at her, watching the life slowly drain out of her. I was staring at her as though she was already gone. In my head, i was burying her. I was saying goodbye to my best friend.

She fought the cancer for two years. The hospital visits were countless, the pain was painful. She woke up most mornings angry at the world, wanting to die. She was 28 when her mother sent for her. She figured there was nothing more the doctors here could do, better to try places where systems were established and the latest equipment was on hand.

I do not know if that is what she needed. Kihembo and her mother had never really gotten along. She always felt that she had been abandoned and for the first year, we drained our savings catering for the bills, calling favors and begging. She eventually left anyway, we had nothing more to give except company and her mother could do better than we could financially.

"What can i tell you Kai, i am tired and i am alone."
"You're getting the best there is Kihembo. You have to stay there and keep fighting."
"Will you come? Would you come if you could? No one knows how to pick the perfect wig for my face like you."

The phone calls make my day, they give me hope. When she sounds strong on the other end of the line, i find myself digging her out of the grave i had buried her in. I find myself waiting for the day when she will come home.

I do not think the anchor woman understand the days and nights in hospital, the many moments with your head in a bucket bringing back even the food you never ate, the rounds of radiation, the hair loss, the weight loss, the exhaustion...all of it. I do not think she understands. Or maybe she does and i have judged her harshly. Maybe under the fancy clothes and perfect makeup, she has a story that i do not know and she has learned how to cover it all well.

I am going to get off my butt today and go to that hospital. More for you Kihembo than for the anchor woman. I do not want you worried about me from far away if i have to begin a journey that you are still walking.