The Night Nurse
"He's recovering from surgery. She works the night shift. In the dark hours when the hospital sleeps, she provides care that isn't in any medical textbook."
Mama Salama works the night shift.
She's been a nurse at the Mombasa General Hospital for thirty years—the one who comes when the sun goes down, when the day staff leaves, when patients are alone with their pain and fear.
I'm recovering from appendix surgery.
Three nights in the hospital. Three nights with her.
"You can't sleep," she says on the first night.
She's checking my vitals—fifty-six years old, two-fifty of nursing efficiency. Her hands are gentle despite their size.
"The pain."
"I'll give you something for that." She adjusts the IV. "But medicine isn't always enough. Sometimes the body needs other kinds of care."
"What other kinds?"
"Rest now. We'll see tomorrow."
The second night, she sits with me.
The hospital is quiet—only the beep of machines, the occasional footsteps in the hall. She's pulled a chair beside my bed.
"Why aren't you making rounds?"
"My other patients are stable. You're the one who needs attention." She takes my hand. "The body heals faster when it's not alone."
"That's not in the medical textbooks."
"The textbooks don't know everything." She strokes my hand. "Thirty years of night shifts have taught me more than any book."
She doesn't leave until dawn.
By then, something has shifted between us. The nurse and the patient, the caretaker and the cared-for. She's been talking all night—about her life, her widowhood, her children grown and gone.
"You listened," she says, surprised. "Most patients want to talk about themselves."
"I wanted to hear you."
"That's—" She pauses. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in years."
The third night, she closes the door.
"Your vitals are strong," she says. "You'll be discharged tomorrow."
"That's good news."
"Is it?" She sits on the edge of my bed. "I won't see you again. After tonight."
"You could—"
"I'm your nurse. This is a hospital. There are rules." She looks at me with eyes that have seen decades of patients come and go. "But tonight, you're still here. And I'm still your night nurse. And the rules say I should provide whatever care you need."
"What care do I need?"
She begins unbuttoning her uniform.
"Let me examine you."
Her examination is thorough.
She removes the hospital gown, checks every inch of my recovering body. Her hands are clinical at first, then less so. By the time she reaches below my waist, there's nothing medical about it.
"The healing is excellent," she murmurs. "But this area needs attention."
"Nurse—"
"Salama. Tonight, I'm Salama." She strokes me slowly. "And tonight, I'm prescribing something special."
She climbs onto the hospital bed.
Careful not to disturb the IV, the monitors, the tubes. Her massive body settles over mine, her uniform open, her breasts spilling out.
"This isn't in the protocol," she whispers.
"Are you complaining?"
"Never."
She sinks down onto me. The bed creaks—hospital beds aren't made for this—but she moves carefully, rhythmically, a nurse even in passion.
"Thirty years of night shifts," she gasps. "Thirty years of watching, caring, never taking. Tonight I take."
"Take everything."
She does.
We finish as dawn approaches.
She cleans up with professional efficiency—adjusting the gown, straightening the sheets, erasing all evidence. By the time the day shift arrives, she's gone.
But she leaves something in my hand.
A phone number. A note: For follow-up care. Anytime.
I'm discharged that afternoon.
A week later, I call the number.
"Salama?"
"I was hoping you'd call." Her voice is warm. "How are you healing?"
"I think I need more treatment."
"Come to my home. Tonight. I'll provide—" She pauses. "Extensive care."
The care continues.
Months later, years later. She retires from the hospital but never stops nursing—not for me. Every time I'm sick, stressed, needing attention, she's there.
"You're the best patient I ever had," she tells me one night.
"Because I keep coming back?"
"Because you let me care for you. Really care." She pulls me close. "The way I always wanted to."
Muuguzi.
Nurse.
Caring by day.
Healing by night.
The best medicine.