It's the smallest we have...

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The day after the BBQ, Miles was slightly unwell. By the evening, he was really quite ill. Kind of malarial. Without his permission Sally went to Mrs O'Donnel's house and returned with Dr Unguru. He was the headmistress's boyfriend and owner of the local hospital. He had not touched anything but money at work for years. He examined Miles, declared that he had pneumonia and told him to come to hospital the next day. The next day, Sunday, they headed to the hospital where a nice young man declared he had gastroenteritis and malaria. Nothing like pneumonia. Miles was given some antibiotics.

Two hours later, back at home, Miles was bouncing up and down, thrashing wildly, fountaining sweat, growling like a dog and floating three feet above the bed. Sally called the hospital and he immediately felt better. In the bathroom, Miles produced few drops of black piss - the last for some weeks - and began to cry. In hospital the next day, Sally fed himscrambled eggs and a mashed banana. After a few minutes, Miles vomited, an action he was to repeat, or attempt to repeat, every three to five minutes for the next few days.

Dr Unguru was never seen again, but, in the belief his hospital was every bit as capable of dealing with a sick white man as any in Lagos or London, he steadfastly refused to sign the release papers for a medivac. One lunchtime when Sally was visiting - school life went on - Miles became compos mentis enough to clearly explain that he was about to die, and that they needed to get out of there. Now. Before he died. Sally disappeared and returned half an hour later, with all the necessary paperwork, a company car to take them to the airport, a plane to Lagos literally waiting on the tarmac and a very red face. A sick white guy in your hospital is one thing; a dead one, something else. And Sally something else again. Miles loved Sally.

At Lagos they were met by an ambulance and whisked to the most modern hi-tech palace of medicine imaginable. When the chief moves, no expense is spared. Miles was surrounded by a gang of extremely professional doctors and nurses who barked numerous sensible questions at him and decide that he probably doesn't have a 'blockage', but that the diagnistic routine requires them just to check in case.

"Catheterize him please, Nurse." The doctor was a six foot tall Tyra Banks type.

"Yes Doctor."

"Catherize me? Have I not suffered enough already?" Tyra merely raised one eyebrow. Miles saw the catheter as it was unleashed from its sterile bubble pack. "You can't use that! That is a black man's catheter. You cannot stick that in me!"

"It's the smallest we have," smiled Dr Banks.

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