Our most colourful patients come from the darkest, dreariest backgrounds.
“He’s not my problem,” the nurse is saying to the security guard.
“Well, neither is he mine,” she replies in an irritated tone.
The patient is disgustingly drunk and refuses to sit down. Instead he chases nurses into their call room and causes havoc every time someone so much as suggests he calm down. He won’t take his jeans off, even though they are caked in blood.
“Gee my geld vir ‘n eintjie!” he is demanding. The nurses shrug, saying they don’t have money for a cigarette. Like they would even let him smoke it.
He gets upset and threatens to do something very vile to the nurse. She rolls her eyes.
We eventually get the story that the tale behind his mummy-wrapped head and blood-bathed arms and buttocks involves an altercation with his baby mama. And a thick liquor bottle.
That’s gangsta yo.
Except we later found out from his neighbour waiting for him in the trauma ward that the real story is that he is a foul mouthed man who finally angered his frail mother-in-law enough to warrant some discipline. With a thick liquor bottle.
Now that’s gangsta yo.