I am going to Jail

I am going to jail. Yes, this is my last month free. In nineteen days, I will be behind bars. Sh. 1,700,000 or $13,124.37 to be precise, is the money I defrauded and stole from the hospital and its stakeholders. It had to be done. I had to lie. It wasn’t about me, but I am the only one who could. Now my six months are lapsing. Time is ticking away, like mist in hot weather.

I have conflicting feelings about it. I will get to that, but right now all I think about is what life in jail will be like. My imagination is shaped by what I’ve seen on TV and a neighbor my mother took us to visit while we were kids. The visit wasn’t scary, just intriguing for a first-time experience. My neighbor, a man in his forties at the time, had been arrested. What had led to that, in the mid-2000s, Eveready Battery company had been shut down in my country due to bankruptcy. The man worked there and was arrested on charges of embezzlement. Then, from the rumors I heard as a kid, the term seemed big, and I didn’t understand how he stole from a battery company. Looking back, his lifestyle didn’t reflect that of someone who had stolen an amount of money that would warrant arrest, like in my case. He and his family lived just above the poverty line. So, where did the money go?

However, before I lose focus, I will stick to my first experience in jail or a cell, whatever he was in at the time. My mother took us—my younger brother and I. We took a taxi to town. We lived in an administrative town where almost everyone knew each other.

She had packed a hot pot with food. We sat in a small waiting area with the most uncomfortable seats—just a long bench with nothing to lean on. We could only see him at lunch hour. When that time came, his name was called out. We went to the desk, and behind it was a cell. He was behind those bars. As a kid, I was fascinated to see him there—a human’s freedom limited by rusty steel bars and a man with a chipped black gun. After all, free will was an illusion.

My mother and he spoke, and she gave him food. He ate while my brother and I ran around. Adult conversations bored us. When lunch was over, we took back our dish. Later, as I grew older, I came to learn that the man was evil. He had assaulted his own daughter and had a child with her. After all, he did deserve to be jailed. But do I?

You be the judge.

In December, immediately after exams, I was called and told that my mother had been hospitalized. She was in a lot of pain, and the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong. An orthopedic doctor suggested an MRI, specifically on her neck area, where it was discovered that she had a tumor pressing on her nerves. By then, she was partially paralyzed and couldn’t walk. Immediate action was required before she could become permanently paralyzed.

It was a relief to finally know what had been ailing her for more than ten years, even though the condition had worsened. She had been in and out of hospitals with no clear diagnosis, and a lot of money had been spent. However, there was a problem—money. She needed money for her urgent surgery—money I didn’t have and had never touched in my life. Her insurance had expired, and even if it hadn’t, it wouldn’t have covered the cost. Some government we have!

I went home, and through a referral, we found a neurosurgeon who, with his team, performed the surgery. After the tumor was sent to the lab, it was found to be non-cancerous, a huge relief, along with the subsiding of her previous pain.

The doctor advised that she be discharged, insisting that being at home would speed up her recovery. But we still had a small balance for the surgery that hadn’t been paid, as the money raised wasn’t enough. What was told to me and my brother was that a relative had gone to the hospital, claiming to be my mother’s child, and asked them to keep her since she had no one at home. To be clear, my mother has only two kids, my brother and I, and the person who told the hospital that was the same person who had found the hospital for us and had the primary contact with them. Whenever I tried to speak with the administration, they said they would only talk to the “older son” who brought her in.

Then, as the days turned into weeks, her wound healed. Weeks turned into months—eight months, to be exact. She was confined to her bed, only moving when they changed her or did physiotherapy. Eventually, at some point, that stopped. The amount had accumulated into a huge sum, an amount the hospital found difficult to negotiate. They placed blame on us, saying that after the surgery, we weren’t forthcoming to admit we couldn’t clear the bill. Then the relative who had lied about being her son began to distance himself, claiming he only said that because he considered her his mother.

Eight months I had been in and out of that hospital. I had become a zombie with no hope of my mother ever getting out. I tried to talk to the CEO, but most discouraged me from interfering since I wasn’t the one who brought her to the hospital or wrote my name as her contact or kin.

How could they ask me that? She wasn’t a stranger to them—just money. They expected me to be okay with her being detained in a hospital for eight months while they celebrated Christmas and New Year with their mothers at home? Mothers who got to sleep in their own beds?

I couldn’t just sit, wait, or watch. I moved up and down until human rights offices pleaded for the hospital to release my mother. The bill was accumulating daily at a high rate since it was a private hospital with steep charges. Eventually, it paid off. They agreed to let us pay the amount in six months.

I knew that amount was impossible to pay, considering I am unemployed and my younger brother is living hand to mouth. But I assured them we would find a way.

I lied.

We never did. I’m still actively looking for a job, and not a cent has been paid toward the agreement. My mother is now at home, no longer detained, but that won’t be the case for me in a few days when I receive that letter. In nineteen days, I will be arraigned in court. They will ask me, “How do you plead?” I will say guilty. At least I’ll be honest—I won’t fight it. I’ll let fate be. Because why fight a hospital that did its job? Nurses who worked day and night to care for their patients. Cooks who ensured they were fed. Cleaners who kept the surroundings clean. The hospital and its stakeholders delivered their services, but despite all that, we couldn’t pay. It’s like we robbed them. And I am prepared for the punishment.