“Islambek has fallen…has fallen.”
Like an album stuck in the groove, over, over and over.
“Islambek has fallen…has fallen…fallen…off the roof.”

The shrill became louder behind the tall sea-green gate.
Rushing down my pomegranate-stained path,
I pushed open the heavy door to see her ashen face.

Shh. Quiet.
Calm.
Slowly.

My words had no effect on the distraught mother.
Only my ability to follow with similar hysteria
seemed to provide any sense of comfort.

Neighbourhood children, the family goat,
six chickens, a cockerel and a cow obscured my vision.
Unintelligible commands – her arms flailed with fear.

Cakes of dirt, tears and blood
hid the impressive gash in the boy's upper thigh.
The siren stopped in front of the half-fallen wall.

Before care was given the bartering began.
Syringes, thermometers, pain killers, gauze.
Scissors, needles…we'll take it all, insisted the driver.

After hasty agreements, I paid the fare.
The vehicle left, just me and the child.
The ambulance was empty, only vodka on one shelf.

Splashes of alcohol to douse the wound.
His small fingers intertwined with mine,
while I forced a reassuring smile. All is well.

More vodka in the wound, the needle begins
to stab through skin, jaggedly, crookedly
without precision, pulling and yanking flesh.

He's not my son. He's not my child.
I hold him closely as if I'd just given birth.
Slowly the weeping stops. His body becomes limp.

The price – a thermometer and a bottle of cough syrup.
Islambek's hand in mine, we start the march home.
These challenges, I think, many do not know.