The Matron

This short story is a result of imagination, except for the names of places any semblance to real persons is unintended and coincidental.

Part One.

The hospital ward hummed with the usual morning activity—doctors and nurses on their rounds, the steady beeping of machines, and the hushed voices of patients.

At exactly 9 AM, Matron Saumu entered the gynaecology ward, her presence as commanding as ever. Sister Njeri quickly noticed her arrival and hurried over, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Morning, Matron," Sister Njeri greeted her, her tone laced with urgency. "Dr. Juma is on the ward round."

"Dr. Juma?" Matron Saumu raised an eyebrow.

"The Medical Officer you requested from the County," Sister Njeri clarified.

"Ah, I see. I'll join you."

As she followed Sister Njeri, frustration began to simmer inside her. They had sent her a Medical Officer, not the consultant she had desperately needed. How could they not grasp the intensity of the workload here? Her thoughts drifted to the woman whose surgery had been postponed time and again. What could she possibly say to her now? She pushed down the rising tide of emotion and forced herself to remain composed as she joined the ward round.

The team gathered around bed number 13, where the woman lay, her eyes glimmering with a fragile hope. Matron Saumu watched as the patient, her abdomen grotesquely swollen, struggled to sit up. The fibroids were consuming her, a living nightmare that seemed unending.

Dr. Juma, a tall, dark figure with a white coat and a stethoscope slung over his shoulders, stood surrounded by nurses and students. He was deep in discussion with them over a missed abortion case at bed 12, but then turned his attention to the woman on bed 13.

"I confirm her cousin has donated the blood," Matron Saumu announced as she joined the group. Dr. Juma turned, his eyes locking onto hers, intrigued by the voice of authority.

"Hello, you must be the matron?"

"Yes, sorry for being late. I left work quite late last night," she replied, forcing a smile.

"That's alright, Matron. I'm here now, and we'll see how we can help."

She nodded, trying to hide the weariness behind her eyes. She knew that like others before him, he might soon leave for greener pastures.

"That would be great," she replied, her voice betraying a flicker of hope.

After confirming that the necessary blood had indeed been donated, Dr. Juma instructed the team to prepare the woman for surgery that afternoon. Relief flooded through Matron Saumu, but she remained at the woman's bedside after the team moved on, squeezing the patient's hand and whispering words of comfort.

"All will be well," she promised. "The surgery will finally happen."

Together, they bowed their heads, offering a prayer of gratitude for what felt like a miracle. In these moments, Matron Saumu almost forgot her own burdens. As the matron in charge of Bora Sub-County Maternity Wing, the well-being of her patients often overshadowed her personal struggles. Yet the weight of her own life was always there, lurking just beneath the surface.

As she walked back to her office to grab a much-needed coffee, her thoughts drifted to her boyfriend—a man who had shared her life for so many years, and now their entire relationship hung in the balance. After a fleeting encounter on her graduation day, they had stayed together for five long years, both consumed by their demanding careers. But when it came to their future, he placed the burden squarely on her shoulders. She was expected to find the time to travel to Nairobi, to see a gynecologist, to undergo fertility tests as they had agreed, or else he would leave her. He wanted a child, but his endless arguments, delivered with the precision of a lawyer, left her feeling drained. The stress had taken its toll—she hadn't eaten a proper meal in days, and her weight was slipping away, just like her peace of mind. Sleep had become a distant memory, her thoughts shackled by unspoken fears.

A soft tap on her shoulder jolted her back to reality. She blinked, realizing that a student nurse had entered her office unnoticed.

"Thank you," Matron Saumu murmured, taking the phone the girl handed her. "You left it by bed 13," the student said quietly before slipping out.

Later, as Matron Saumu headed to her house, her phone rang from an unknown number. The voice on the other end thanked her profusely—the woman on bed 13 had received her life-saving surgery. The call ended with a heartfelt prayer of gratitude.

That evening, Matron Saumu forced herself to eat, aware of the concerned glances her colleagues had begun to throw her way. She discarded the stale noodles from the night before and made a fresh pot of rice and tea, determined to keep up appearances. Halfway through her meal, her phone buzzed with a call from her mother. She let it ring, unable to bear the thought of hearing her mother's voice, knowing exactly how the conversation would end.

Time is moving, and you need to bring a man. It was always the same refrain, especially at night like this. Her mother’s concern was genuine, but it only deepened the ache within her. Her boyfriend’s ultimatum echoed in her mind—get pregnant or it’s over—as if conceiving a child rested solely on her. But he was a lawyer, not a medic, she reminded herself. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t grasp the complexities of biology.

She was on a mission to regain the weight she had lost, to reclaim the part of herself that felt like it was slipping away. She needed to feel like herself again, to look girlish and full of life.

Before she retired for the night, she poured herself a glass of red wine, seeking solace in its warmth—a brief escape from the thoughts that haunted her.