If you bleed at Kenyatta Hospital, somebody just might help

I am standing in the line at Kenyatta Hospital, waiting for my cousin to be seen.

There is death all around me. The smell of it hangs in the air, sticking to my clothes, my bag, my body.

But I can't leave, because I have to stand in line. My cousin was admitted last night, and if I don't stay in this line, he will get worse.

There is a lady behind me. I can hear her breathing over my shoulder.

I can tell she is anxious, just like me. Just like everyone there in that room that feels like disease.

I wait. I tweet. I WhatsApp. Anything to distract myself from where I am. When I run out of bundles, 45 minutes later, I haven't moved.

I look at the ground. There is a pool of blood. My head jerks up, wondering what the hell is going on.

The lady behind me – the anxious one.

She's bleeding.

Profusely.

A thick river of red is running down her jeans. The patch is growing, as is the pool surrounding our feet.

There are tears in her eyes. Not tears of shame. Tears because she knows no one is coming to help her. A fourth – fourth! - nurse walks by, unconcerned.

I don't know what it is. It can't be her period, there's too much blood. It has to be something more serious.

And it can't be a wound or something; we've been standing in the same line for almost an hour. Why would it suddenly start? Did she know it would?

I look at her face. She is embarrassed. I wipe my feet and try to step away; I am ashamed and I am scared and I have no idea what to do, and the people who are supposed to be doing something aren't.

The blood still covers my feet before anyone comes. I go to see my cousin.

'EASY TO DIE'

You can say a lot about Obama, and what you like and don't like about him. But he has done something that few after Gaddafi have accomplished – made healthcare accessible.

We already know the state of healthcare in Kenya is deplorable. We see it all the time, with our high rates of medical tourism and the inability of our hospitals to cater to anything that even hints at a terminal disease.

Our machines are old and our doctors are too few, or ill-equipped.

Medical scandals pop up every so often to remind us how easy it is to die in Kenya. The most recent one is a girl's worst nightmare; a city "doctor" is being accused of sexually assaulting his patients when he puts them under during gynaecological examinations.

This is doubly disturbing. One, why would I need to go under during a routine check-up? And if I did, shouldn't someone be in the room with me? A family member? A nurse?

Two, we know nothing about how to report complaints about doctors. A friend who had to report assault at a police station was immediately asked for a bribe so that the doctor at the station could say assault had actually happened.

If this man is charged, which no one thinks he will be (we are still waiting for a certain pastor to be convicted), then, great.

In the event that he is not, and he continues to practice, what is a common Kenyan to do? One who hasn't heard the story – or one who didn't know they were about to be raped?

ON OUR OWN

We are truly on our own. It would appear that it is up to the people to take care of the people. The system has failed us.

It is evident in how often there are pleas for money to save a cancer patient or a baby with an overgrown heart. Is is evident by how many scandals are reported, and how many doctors are covering up for others.

First, we need to talk more about it. Raise a fuss. Demand our rights – after we know them.

Second, we need to support each other. A few weeks ago, Jackson Biko of bikozulu.co.ke put out a plea for Jadudi, a cancer patient whose heart truly was bigger than his disease.

Kenyans raised enough money for his operation and after-care under the Africa Cancer Foundation banner. When the government fails you, do it yourself. That is what the Africa Cancer Foundation is trying to do – give people who don't have options a chance at survival.

The system is broken, but we cannot sit by and watch until it is fixed. Teach a man to fish, you say? There are no fish.

And finally – what can we do with the honest doctors we know? What charity can we offer? How do we get that free medical care into the streets, even in a small way?

Medical camps, drives, you name it, we should be doing it. Because, to be honest, no one else will. And the pool of blood, one day, will be your own.

Twitter: @AbigailArunga