Chapter 9
“So, this is why you’re always bugging me about the wipes.”
Archie
Our second week in Uganda was a whirlwind, and I can’t believe we’re already leaving tomorrow.
I’m going to miss everything here—the dusty golden light, the chaotic chorus of birds at the break of dawn, and even the lukewarm showers.
Hopefully, I’ll get the chance to do this again someday. For longer next time.
I’m checking the board to see if I’ve been assigned a camp duty today—praying it’s not latrines—but luckily, I’m not on the list.
Katherine saunters up next to me. She’s wearing a loose button-up shirt rolled to her elbows, and her hair is pulled back in a messy braid that carries a golden shimmer from the morning sunlight.
“I learned my lesson,” I say with a chuckle, glancing at the list again. “About time too.”
“Yeah,” she murmurs, swaying on her feet. “Crazy how fast it’s gone. It’s already my last medical run. Only my second mobile clinic too. I said goodbye to everyone at the clinic this morning. It felt… weird.”
“Can I come?” I blurt without thinking. “I mean, we’ve already established you need me. My schedule may have been booked up this past week, but today, I am at your full disposal.” I channel a mock-serious tone, like a knight offering his service.
She rolls her eyes, but her lips curve up. “I was actually going to be alone today—Amara’s sick. So, yeah, I could use an assistant. But you have to promise to behave.”
I place a hand over my chest. “As if I’ve ever done anything less. I am an excellent assistant, thank you very much.”
“All right then,” she says, already marching toward the clinic. “Let’s go.”
By the time we finally load up the truck, I’m convinced Katherine has secretly signed us up for a month-long expedition, rather than a single-day medical run.
“This is a lot of stuff,” I say, arms laden with packed boxes and first aid kits.
“I’m expecting a lot of work. The village is secluded, and they haven’t seen a doctor in months.” She hands me another canvas bag. “Already regretting this?”
“Absolutely not,” I say, loading up another bag.
Once everything is wedged into the truck bed like a precarious game of Tetris, we pile into the back seat, and the driver takes us to Kitagoma.
The roads get bumpier the farther we drive.
Taking a sharp turn, we whizz past grazing goats, small clusters of houses, and finally, long stretches of red earth and dry bushland.
No cell signal. No buildings. Just sun, sky, and billowing clouds of dust.
It’s late morning by the time we roll into the village. A few kids scatter toward the trees, peeking shyly from behind the crusted trunks. Meanwhile, a group of adults come forward, led by a man in his fifties dressed in a patterned shirt and a worn cap.
The driver chats with him in Luganda, then turns to us and introduces him as the chief of the village.
“Thank you for coming,” Chief Omondi says. “We have set up for you.”
“Thank you,” we both reply with genuine smiles.
The setup is little more than a table and a couple of chairs clustered near a standpipe under a shaded tree, but Katherine beams, telling him that it’s perfect.
We unload our supplies, and soon, a queue starts to form.
The first patient is an older woman with a persistent cough.
Katherine listens carefully to her chest with her stethoscope, asks a few questions through a local translator, and checks her temperature.
“I’ll give you something to help with the cough,” she says gently.
“But it’s also crucial that you boil your water before drinking it.
Smoke from indoor cooking can make this worse too.
Do you cook with wood inside your house? ”
The woman nods, and Katherine lays out some safer options using simple gestures and words. Finally, she hands over a packet of medicine, smiling warmly.
Before the woman gets up to leave, Katherine pulls out a small book of thick brown paper from the bottom of one of the crates.
“This,” she explains, holding it up, “is called The Drinkable Book. Each page is a filter. You tear one out,” she says, showing her as she speaks, “place it over a container, and pour dirty water through. It filters out bacteria and parasites. Each page contains two filters, and the whole book is capable of filtering a hundred litres of water—a month’s worth for one person. ”
The translator relays her words, and the woman nods again, her eyes widening as she watches the demonstration.
I stare at the thing, eyebrows raised. “That’s… genius,” I say. “Why haven’t I heard of this?”
“It’s not that well-known, but very efficient.”
“So, that’s what was so heavy,” I muse. “Now I get it. Pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” she says with a smile, handing the book to the woman. “I brought the rest of the stock. I figured they’d need it here as much as anywhere.”
Next up is a boy with a nasty-looking gash on his shin. Katherine crouches beside him, cleans out the wound with practiced hands, and applies antibiotic cream while the boy bites down on his lip.
“You’re being very brave,” she tells him, then turns to his mother. “This needs to stay clean. Wash with soap and water—clean water—and no playing in the mud until it heals.”
As I hand her the gauze roll, I try not to wince at the sight of the wound, focusing on Katherine instead.
She’s in her element, checking vitals, offering explanations, ensuring every patient understands not just what to take, but why.
She’s in a constant state of flux, and I feel like a robot next to her, handing her stuff and explaining how the filter book works.
I stand back as she relays what seems like the thousandth set of instructions on hand and food washing to an old man. He nods, then walks away, a copy of the book in his hand.
Katherine sighs, wiping sweat from her forehead. I pass her a water bottle without needing to be asked.
“So, this is why you’re always bugging me about the wipes.” I give her a playful nudge. “You’re trying to keep me from dying of some horrible mud-borne disease.”
She offers a smug smile. “Exactly. Hygiene is survival. Does that mean you’ll start using them?”
I press my lips, repressing a grin. “Maybe.”
She swats my arm with a latex glove before turning to the next patient.
We’re halfway through treating an elderly woman with a stubborn rash when a burst of shouting erupts from beyond a copse of trees. People are rushing toward us—Chief Omondi at the forefront, frantic.
“Doctor! Please, help!”
Behind him, two men are carrying a boy—a teenager, maybe fifteen—who’s limp and slick with sweat. His arms are curled in, like he’s trying to hold himself together.
Katherine bolts up from the table. “What happened?” she demands, jogging toward them.
“Kato, my son, he collapsed,” the chief says, breathless. “Stomach pain since yesterday. Now he screams, cannot walk. Please.”
“On the table, quick,” she says.
They lower the boy onto the makeshift exam table. Katherine is already checking his pulse, pressing gently on his abdomen.
The kid howls in pain.
She flinches. “Ruptured appendix,” she mutters. “It’s already leaking.”
I have no clue what that means, but judging by the tension in her shoulders, it’s bad news.
“We need to operate,” she says.
“Wait, what? Here?” I whisper, shaking my head. “Katherine, we need to take—”
“If we don’t, he dies.”
That shuts me up.
She spins to face me, her eyes piercing into mine. “Listen. I need the red med pack—the big one. There’s a zip compartment inside. Get everything that looks like metal, plus some gloves, gauze, lidocaine, saline vials, headlamp—”
“Wait, wait, what?” I blink. “What’s lidocaine look like? And where—what zip compartment?”
“Big red bag, right side pocket, inside mesh, vial labeled ‘Lido’ or ‘1%’. And the gauze is in the white and blue packs.”
I hurry, trying to suppress my panic. I find the bag, unzip one part—wrong one. I try the next. Everything is jumbled and hopelessly foreign. Tools, bottles, things that could be pencils or syringes—I don’t know.
I grab everything that looks vaguely important and run it back, dumping it on a chair next to her.
“I don’t know what’s what,” I admit, out of breath. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she says, already sorting through the pile. “Just stay close. I might need help holding him.”
I swallow hard. Holding him?
She rips open a pair of sterile gloves with her teeth and slips them on. “He’s septic. I’ll anesthetize him as best I can, but he’s still going to feel it.”
“You’re really cutting him open? Now?” My voice comes out higher than I anticipated.
“Yes,” she says flatly. “You might want to look away.”
But I don’t. I can’t. The boy’s trembling, half-conscious, and Katherine is leaning over him, channeling the kind of focus I’ve only ever seen on the pitch, last five seconds, penalty on the line.
She disinfects his stomach, injects the numbing stuff, and gets to work.
And yeah—I look away.
But I hear everything. The wet, squelchy sounds. The kid’s ragged gasp. The murmurs from the gathered villagers. My own heartbeat thrumming in my ears.
“I need to irrigate.” She looks up, meeting my eyes. “Saline. Clear vial, blue twist top. It’s in the pile you brought.”
I fumble, nearly dropping it when I pass it to her with shaking hands.
She keeps working, quiet and methodical, sweat running down her temples. Not once does she hesitate. Not once does she look scared.
Meanwhile, I fluctuate between mindblown that she’s doing actual surgery, right here in the middle of a Ugandan village, and scared out of my mind.
Everyone is holding their breath, the chief not leaving his son’s side. He strokes his head gently.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but we’ve been huddled here for a while, watching Katherine work, me handing her the equipment she needs. Her focus hasn’t faltered one bit. She’s precise, fast, determined.
Finally, she starts stitching him up. That must be a good sign, right?
She presses a bandage to his abdomen and lets out a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay. He’s stable—for now.”
The chief’s face crumples with emotion. “You saved him.”
Katherine nods, pressing a hand gently to the boy’s shoulder. “He’ll need antibiotics. And close monitoring. But he should be okay.”
“Thank you,” Chief Omondi says, taking Katherine into his arms as the crowd around us applauds warmly.
She smiles, a faint blush coating her face.
Once the chief releases her, returning to his son, I whisper, “You were amazing.”
“I’m a trauma surgeon. That’s what I do,” she says, blowing out a long breath.
Her hair is stuck to her temples, her clothes are wrinkled and stained, and she’s an absolute wreck—but I swear, I’ve never seen anyone look more incredible in my life.