Inkeka do, wek ato! These were plaintive cries from the sufferers at hands of either mum or her fervent sis while administering therapy to a sufferer of either sprained ankle occasioned by, perchance, a misadventure.
One day in lieu of these rudimentary techniques I was put before a man in a long white coat, who others called Doctor. After several test the chap concluded I had a most dangerous affliction. Fortunately treatment was in readiness. And with just 60 injections I would be my merry self again.
What ever grudge this medic had against me will forever be a mystery. For even this day I cannot fanthom why I had to be subjected to a huge instrument better suited for cows and wild buffalos. Still I faced the nurse with the gaiety which these occasions engendered. My merry voice could be heard from miles in end when flesh came in contact with the instrument.
The pains my siblings faced with their traditional medic practitioners was a trifling compared to my agonies. It was like comparing a thorn in a leg of an able bodied man to the plight of a one legged invalid whose lone limb must be amputated.
I quickly saw the impossibility of going to whole hog on this treatment. The pain was insufferable. The entire rear end was soon reduced to a mess of rotting flesh. I was reduced to girlie apparel. Just think what this did to the prestige of a six year old.
And so it was not strange that I adopted guerilla tactics. At appointed time I would perform a disappearing trick. A man hunt would ensure and I learnt early the importance of friendly populace ib a guerilla struggle. Betrayed m9re times than could be remembered, when the butt was half gone. I made a last dash for freedom. In full glare of the errant doctor.
This last ditch campaign attracted unparallelled sympathy. And with it I made the ultimate declaration ” let me die rather than suffer the 18 th injection.” And so it was that my pliant put a halt to further suffering as u awaited a peaceful death. As it is am still waiting. …but the scar remains on my butt.