The Djibouti Gateway

He made his way through the tangled back streets until he arrived at the hospital, just as the first hint of dawn appeared in the form of a vague lightening over the eastern horizon. He dropped the folded newspaper with his note for Abu into the trash can beside the bus stop across from the hospital, and crossed the road to the main entrance. By now, he was familiar with the layout of the facility and having passed the front reception desk, which was unmanned, he headed straight for the designated male surgical ward, a grossly overstated title for what was no more than a row of ten iron framed beds, more imagined than seen in the near total darkness. A nurse’s table stood roughly half way down in the middle of the room. Ibrahim had the first bed, mostly due to his venerable position in the society in which he found himself, and offering at least a vestige of privacy due to the solid wall to his right and the fact the second bed on his left had been left empty. A single nurse was sitting at the desk, highlighted by the wash of light from a bare bulb that hung from a length of wire, and clearly busy with some administrative paperwork, such that her attention was focused on the work before her.
Ignoring the barely visible outline of the sleeping Ibrahim, Wasim entered the supply room, which was located at the entrance of the ward, where he knew he would find an assortment of equipment and prosthetics. He did not switch on the light, but the room was moderately well illuminated by a streetlamp, which shone through the window from across the street outside. There were two wheelchairs in the center of the room, one of which was so decrepit, it looked as if it might have been left over from the Italian campaigns in Africa at the start of the Second World War. The other would win no prizes either, but at least it looked solid. Ibrahim wheeled it into the ward and pushed it alongside Ibrahim’s bed, still without disturbing the night nurse. He grabbed Ibrahim by the arm and shook him firmly.
Ibrahim opened his eyes and tried to focus on the dark form of Wasim,
“What is it? He asked, alarm showing in his voice.
“It’s me, Wasim,” whispered Wasim; “we have to get out of here.”
“What’s going on?” asked Ibrahim, completely caught off guard. “I can hardly walk and it’s the middle of the night.”
“Actually, it’s nearly morning,” corrected Wasim, “and if we don’t get you out of here now, you will most likely be carried out in a box.”
“What are you talking about?”
Wasim explained rapidly as Ibrahim listened in shock.
“And you are sure about this?” Ibrahim was still fighting disbelief.
“One hundred per cent.”
“And Abassi sent these men?”
“Later!” cried Wasim in desperation, “grabbing Ibrahim by the arms and forcing him into an upright position. “If we don’t get going now, it may be too late.”
Reluctantly, Ibrahim started to shuffle painfully to the edge of the bed.
The commotion at the end of the ward had caught the nurse’s attention and she put down her pen and got to her feet, heading towards Ibrahim’s bed, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. She approached the bed as Wasim was helping Ibrahim to the wheelchair, supporting his weight as he half fell off the bed and tumbled painfully into the chair.
“What’s going on here?” She demanded, indignantly.
“Mr. Ibrahim is being discharged,” replied Wasim.
“On whose orders?” asked the nurse, perplexed “Are you from transport?”
“On Dr Habib’s orders,” replied Ibrahim, regaining his composure. “He told me I could go as soon as my friend here came to get me.”
“Well, there’s nothing about it in the chart,” retorted the nurse. “You can’t leave until I have orders.”
“Then I suggest you go and telephone Dr Habib,” said Ibrahim, sliding painfully into the wheelchair, irritation beginning to show in his voice. “My friend has driven four hours to get here, and I don’t intend to let him leave here without me. In the meantime, I’m going to pack.”
The nurse hesitated for a second, then turned on her heels and stomped off towards the desk.
She’ll probably call for assistance instead,” whispered Wasim. “We need to go; now!”
He shoved the wheelchair towards the door as the nurse reached the desk. She picked up the phone and hit the speed dial button for security. Wasim pushed Ibrahim and the wheelchair through the door. The nurse was speaking rapidly into the phone.
“Stop!” she shouted, but Wasim was now almost running as he shoved Ibrahim forwards and into the main corridor, the door of the ward banging shut behind him.
“I said stop!” called the nurse, her voice rising in alarm. However, it was not her raised voice that bothered Wasim. Ahead of him, the corridor made a left hand turn towards the hospital entrance and foyer, and Wasim could clearly hear a muttering of excited voices coming towards them from the foyer. He looked around frantically. To his right was a door with the international symbol for a woman’s toilet. He turned the wheelchair sharply, his heart now racing. He grabbed the door handle, threw open the door and pushed Ibrahim and the wheelchair roughly through the door, closing it as rapidly as he could without slamming it noisily behind him, and just as a group of three men rounded the corner in the corridor heading for the male surgical ward.