I first met Doctor William Johnson at a party my company was hosting to celebrate the launch of a series of cyber cafes in Kenya. He was about 60, paunchy, bald, and a little drunk. I overheard one of my colleagues pointing him out, remarking that his medical credentials were “a bit sketchy” but that he “certainly does like putting the local girls up in the stirrups!”
I blushed at the thought of it, and took an instant dislike to him. When he came over to introduce himself, and to hit on me, I quickly shot him down, at least until he made an offer I couldn’t refuse.
“COVID shots can be a bit hard to come by in Kenya,” he noted, making the understatement of the year. “Since you’re on long term assignment, and my clinic is dedicated to help young women of child bearing age, you might be eligible for a new batch of shots I’m getting in on Friday.”
“You have Covid shots? Seriously?” I said, suddenly interested in the inebriated doctor.
“Yes, I do. We open at 9AM. You’ll have to wait in line, and I can’t make any promises, but if you get a place in line you should get a shot before they run out. My clinic is in Bongo. There’s only one road, so you can’t miss it.”
Covid shots are like gold, and needless to say I was anxious to get one. And so it was me, and my best friend Susan, who works in the LA office of my company, went bouncing down the dirt road to Bobo at 5AM on Friday morning, driving the scooter we keep handy for quick jaunts.
We actually saw the women before we saw the clinic. There were about 300 hundred of them, all locals, judging from their closely cropped hair. It was actually difficult to see them, except when the headlight of our scooter hit them directly because their skin was black, and all the women were completely naked.
I also noted that all of the women had numbers written on their asses with some sort of white paint.
We drove to the front of the line, where an older black woman in a nurses uniform regarded us with a stern expression. Susan parked the bike, as I explained our case.
“We’re here for our shots,” I explained. “Is there a line for… Westerners?”
“White people, you mean?” the nurse replied angrily. “No. You take off clothes, and put them in bag,” she said, indicating one of the old burlap grain sacks on the table. Bag has number. I write number on your ass. Then you go wait in line, like all the rest.”
“Why do we have to take our clothes off?” Susan protested. “Aren’t the shots in our arms?”
The woman smiled a cruel, toothless smile. “Doctor says girls your age are dirt sluts. Pussy filled with disease! He has to inspect thoroughly, and delouse, to kill any crotch critters. You want shot, you ride in stirrups first.”
“No way!” I said. “I want to talk to the doctor. I know him. We’re friends.”
“Doctor not here. Doctor not here for hours. He get here 9, sometimes 10 or 11. Depends on when he wakes up. He not wait on you. No special treatment for white girls. Strip! Strip! Everything off!”
I turned to Susan, who much to my surprise, was already down to her bra and panties. “Are you serious?” I said. “I’m not even sure he’s a licensed doctor.”
“It’s worth a shot,” she said, revealing her breasts to the smiling black woman, who was already waiting with her paint brush for her chance to write on Susan’s ass. Susan was a bit of an exhibitionist, and had the body to prove it.
“Snatch bag too, white girl,” she said pointing to her crotch. “Purse and keys, too. I keep everything safe. Then turn around and show me your ass.”
“Are there even 400 shots?” I asked, nervously toying with the button of my white silk blouse.
“Plenty of shots, if you get naked now. Strip, Strip! Everything off! To the skin!” she barked.
The woman had used a white marker on the black girls, but Susan’s number, 379, was painted with a lovely, bold red. Looking over her shoulder, Susan admired her new number. “Nice! You’ll be 380”, she said, smiling at me as I nervously fiddled with the top button of my white silk blouse.
