Madanda was violently awakened by a not too familiar feeling.
There were hammers on all sides of the anvil that was his head; small trickles of sweat running with an urgency down his skin, less oxygen for him to breathe in the small flat.
“Ugh.” He remarked.
This was not something he had any particular fondness with. Fever. He needed to up and go. It was Monday. He had appointments, assignments, reports, name it! His red curtains were glowing in the bright orange light of the early morning. He looked at his BlackBerry on the side of his bed looking for the time:
“7:05am!!?? Dang! Where did the time go?”
He lifted his huge torso off the damp red sheets and tried to make way to the bathroom. His legs were feeling heavy. His joints felt like they were pierced with 9 inch nails. Three steps and a lump formed in his throat. It was a salty feeling in his mouth. Suddenly his tummy pushed something back.
He darted to the toilet seat, opened his mouth and let out the barf. He was coughing and spitting, and coughing and spitting. After a while he stopped and looked…
“What the heck?!!”
Moving to the tap, to wash out his mouth, he looked into the mirror and was faced with something he had never seen before;
“Blood spew now red eyes? God, am I sick?”
Feeling an itch on his left shoulder, he began to scratch.
His heart raced. He had seen the posters, the Ministry of Health notices, had listened to the adverts on the radio and everything felt like him right now.
He stared into the mirror riveted in thought and stance.
“What should I do? Tell someone I’m sick? Won’t they call the police and spray me with JIK and put me away?”
“What if I am not sick? What if it’s something that can be treated? What do I do?”
No sooner had the thought come than a violent feeling grasped his pelvis.
“Damn it, I caught the disease!”
To be continued.