Rest with the angels, Wakarembe: Lonely ‘walk into the night’ for Mzee Mwangi

Last week I broke down and cried. My family was shocked. The last time they saw me cry openly was when my mum died three years ago. This was totally unexpected.

I got a call from a man I had never met, but only spoken to telling me that my friend of 10 days, Joseph Mwangi Chege, had died of Covid-19. The caller was his brother who had found my number in Mzee Mwangi’s phone contacts. I met him the very first day I was admitted to Galana ward — our room was meant to hold seven patients but we were six — George, Julius, Moses and three Josephs.

I kind of adopted Mzee Mwangi from Day One. Initially, he could hardly, move so I introduced myself and told him I’d get him whatever he needed.

From then on, I’d pick his food for him (the caterers did not venture into the wards, they had no PPEs); they would stand at the nurses’ station and call out to us, then we’d troop over and pick breakfast, lunch and our dinner. We’d then heat the food in a small room adjacent to the nurses’ station and head back to our respective rooms.

Collect food

Much as I tried to coax him to walk with me to collect food, Mzee Mwangi never could, so I used to collect his food, microwave it and take it to his bed. I’d tell him why it was important to eat even if he didn’t want to, because he needed the energy and also to fortify his body for all those drugs we were taking.

I’d make him sit up and watch over him. Whenever his brother called (he called him Machaa, short for Macharia), he’d tell him about me, ask him to talk to me and generally make him know he was in good hands.

One night, he got up on his own, held the beds and gingerly and wearily made his way out to the washroom. I was ecstatic. The second victory was when he actually went and took a shower! All on his own. Sounds trite, but these were major strides for someone who was not getting out of bed at all.

He also got transfused twice in those few days I was there. He regaled me with stories of keeping grade cows in Ruai and selling milk to his neighbours. I was impressed. He told me he was well-known in that neighbourhood by the name Wakarembe.

I’d ask him every morning how his night was, and how he woke up. Being in the bed next to mine (he was in Bed 10, mine was 11) also made it quite easy for us to converse. Then people started getting discharged. First was Moses (replaced by John), then Julius, then Joseph Kiige and on Tuesday George, John and I were all discharged.

Lonely death

 The first two were discharged in the morning and I was discharged in the afternoon. Mzee Mwangi called me over and lamented: “I’m going to be left alone now.” I told him hospitals always bring in new patients and he’d get new friends but he told me: “You took such care of me, I doubt it, you were a God-send”.

He gave me his phone and asked me to save my number in it. I last saw him around 6 o’clock on Tuesday — lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling and God knows musing about what.

On Wednesday, my first day of rest out of hospital, I had a number of calls to make, some bit of catching up to do after being away for so long. He crossed my mind at one point, and I said I’d call him later. At around 4.30pm, I got a missed call from a number I didn’t recognise.

I called it back, no response. I finally called Mzee Mwangi, got no response but didn’t get alarmed — it was dinner time. The same number called me again past seven. It was Machaa. Mzee Mwangi was no more.

The saddest part is that he died such a lonely death. Rest with the angels, Wakarembe. Please keep safe, wear your masks properly, sanitise and keep social distance. Covid is not a myth.