Postmortem movements

One Saturday afternoon I was in the pit under the second hand Austin 10, our only transport at the mission hospital, tinkering with the transmission.

Being the only doctor I was always on call so I was not surprised to see brown legs and hear polite coughs. “Ba Kantwa has died,” they told me. Puzzled because I was not usually called out to the village when someone had died, I gave my condolences. “But we are not sure she has died.”

Hurriedly checking …