My friends come to see me.

The back of my head is raised to make it easier for me to breath. Whenever the plasmapheresis process is initiated each day a cannula is put in my nose. Webs of IVs are connected to my body, dripping plasma and saline. Under my thin hospital gown I feel the energy being pumped into me ballooning. In all the years I have lived I’ve never been this sick.

           Every time I open my eyes from some drug-induced sleep I find Saint Carolynah Mwende hovering above me, administering some medication, adjusting my head, or just doing something to make me comfortable.

       However, on Thursday, a light face loomed over me instead of Crolynahs’, lit from behind with a hazy white glow.

        “You gotta be kidding me,” I said.

        “Thought you’d get away with it?” her voice was edgy. It was Wisty, and that meant I was busted for sure.

        “Wisty, is it really you?”

        “One and the only. You ain’t dreaming, gal.” She hugged me gently. “Gal, I have missed you. We have missed you.”

        “How did you know?”

         “What does it matter. We were to know eventually.”

Cover of Shiri

          Everything was clearing up. I had not told anyone of my condition, save for my boss who granted me the sick leave. I felt bad I had not told my best friends in the world, but what could I have done? I knew that they had gone to the trouble of enquiring about me. I felt good for what they had done, and at the same time felt bad for not telling them.

       “Look, I am sorry I did…”

       “Shhhh!” Wisty quieted me by putting her index finger on my lips. “I know. Trust me, I understand. You had to.”

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