The Kitgum Nurse Didn’t Care for Me Like the Others

I arrived in Kitgum with a three-month NGO scholarship, carrying two backpacks and a notebook full of noble intentions that were going to last me exactly four days. I’m a general practitioner, thirty-six years old, born in Madrid and worn out by it, and I thought a trip to northern Uganda would give me back something I’d lost amid the endless shifts at the public hospital. It gave me something else. Something less clean. Much deeper.

Adisa appeared on the second day. He was the man in charge of the communal well, thirty-eight or forty years old, with shoulders that looked ax-hewn and a deep laugh that slipped beneath my clothes. He looked at me the way you look at someone who has already made up his mind, even if he’s the last to know it. I lowered my eyes to the thermometer between my fingers and pretended to write something down. When I looked up, Adisa was still leaning against the dispensary doorframe, his smile even wider.

That same night I arrived at his hut with a ridiculous excuse about mosquito nets. There were no mosquito nets. Adisa closed the door with his foot, shoved me against the mud wall, and ripped my shirt off in one pull.

“Let’s see what you brought,” he said, and thrust his tongue into my mouth with a hunger that buckled my knees.

He laid me down on the mat and pulled my pants down without ceremony. I hadn’t fucked a guy in three years, and it showed: I was shaking like jelly and already had a hard-on before he’d finished unbuckling his belt. When he lowered his jeans, his cock sprang free, thick and dark, already leaking at the tip. He put it in my face without asking.

“Open,” he ordered.

I opened. He eased it in slowly, testing me, gauging how far it would go. His hands held the back of my neck as he began fucking my mouth at a slow rhythm, watching me take him. Saliva dripped down my chin, and his eyes shone at the sight. When I was wet enough, he turned me over and put me on all fours on the mat. He spat on my ass, rubbed the saliva in with two fingers, and opened me patiently.

“Relax,” he said. “Slowly.”

Lie. When the head passed the ring, he drove it all the way in with a single thrust. I screamed into my bitten arm. I stayed still for three, four seconds, feeling him pulse inside me, and then he began to move. He fucked me long and deep, gripping my hips and pulling me back toward him every time he thrust. The mat scraped my knees. The sound of his balls slapping my ass filled the hut. I moaned like I never had before, my face crushed against the rough fabric and my own cock dripping between my legs.

“That’s it,” he growled. “This white ass wanted cock. You can tell.”

He changed my position three times before he came. Face up with my legs over his shoulders, on my side, then back on all fours. When he came, he did it inside me, filling me with a long, hot release that ran down my thighs when it spilled out. I lay sprawled on the mat, panting, while he wiped himself with a cloth and smiled.

“You’re coming back tomorrow,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

I came back. I came back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Ten days of handing out medication in the mornings and sucking his cock at night, with dirty knees and a burning mouth. Until the fever knocked me flat.

***

It was the water, no doubt. I drank from a jerrycan without boiling it, and forty-eight hours later I was doubled over, vomiting bile outside my tent. Adisa found me at dawn, half-conscious and soaked through. He carried me to the truck with two other men and took me to the regional hospital, two and a half hours over dirt roads that drew groans from me through my delirium.

I woke in the middle of the afternoon in a shared ward, an IV in my arm and the ceiling spinning. Bacterial infection, the doctor said. Four days in the hospital, minimum. When the fever dropped to 100.4, the nurse on duty came in.

His name was Kwame. Twenty-eight years old, tall and sinewy, with the effortless beauty some men have when life has gifted them cheekbones. The blue uniform outlined his arms and fell over his hips as if it had been sewn onto him. He held my gaze longer than necessary while changing an IV bag.

“Your friend got you here just in time,” he said with half a smile. “Big. Strong. He carried you like a baby.”

There was something in his tone. An insinuation slipping between the words without asking permission. I held his gaze because I was too tired to pretend I didn’t understand it. His smile widened, he adjusted the sheet over my chest, and he left, swaying his hips just enough for me to notice.

That night, at ten-thirty, when the ward was asleep, the curtain around my bed slowly opened. Kwame crouched beside me as though checking an IV line and spoke right against my ear.

“At night, nobody looks in here,” he whispered. “I know what kind of man you are. I saw you watching me.”

His hand slid over the sheet and stopped right on my bulge. He squeezed. I’d had loose erections for two days that I couldn’t control, and I was already halfway hard before he got there. Kwame clicked his tongue in satisfaction, slipped his hand beneath the elastic of my pajama pants, and grabbed my cock directly, skin against skin. His hand was broad and hot, and he knew exactly what to do.

“Shhh.” He covered my mouth with his other hand. “The others are sleeping. You stay quiet.”

He masturbated me slowly, rotating his wrist every two or three strokes, squeezing the base before moving back up. I bit the palm he had over my lips, thrust my hips against his fist, and came in less than three minutes, too weak to hold out any longer. Semen spilled over my stomach. Kwame pulled away his coated hand and, without taking his eyes off me, licked his fingers one by one.

“White tastes different,” he murmured. “Less salty. Good.”

He closed the curtain and left. I lay there trembling beneath the sticky sheet, my cock still hard, wondering what the hell my life was becoming.

***

The next day, after lunch, I walked to the bathroom in the east wing. I was pissing when the door closed behind me and I heard the latch click. I turned around. Kwame was standing with his arms crossed against the door, wearing that same smile.

“I wanted to see you standing up,” he said. “Without a sheet over you.”

I finished pissing without taking my eyes off him. I washed my hands. When I shut off the tap, he was already a foot and a half away. He knelt without preamble, pulled my pajama pants down to my knees, and looked at my cock with the fascination of someone finding something unusual at a market.

“I’ve never sucked a white cock,” he said. “Now I have.”

He took the whole thing into his mouth in one pass. He had experience; his tongue worked around the head while his lips sealed around the shaft. His other hand massaged my balls firmly. I leaned against the tiled bathroom wall with my legs shaking, watching his head move up and down between my thighs. He sucked enthusiastically, making that wet, obscene noise that bounced off the tiles. Strings of saliva hung from his mouth and soaked my balls.

“I’m going to come,” I warned him.

He didn’t take his mouth off me. He sped up. I buried my fingers in his short hair and came in streams into his mouth. Kwame swallowed everything, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and stood up, licking his lips.

“You taste better than the locals,” he said. “Sweeter. Tomorrow you get fucked. Still too weak today.”

He walked out as if nothing had happened. It took me five minutes before I could walk.

***

That night, around one, the doctor came in. A man in his early fifties, thin, with round glasses sliding down his nose. His name was Okello. He quietly told me I needed an additional examination and took me to the office at the back, pushing the door until it closed with a sharp click.

“Lie down,” he instructed.

I lay back on the examination table. He undid the top of my pajamas and palpated my abdomen with warm, firm hands. At first it was a clinical examination. Then his hands moved lower. His fingers brushed my hipbone, lingered there a second too long, and continued downward. He untied the cord of my pants without looking me in the face. When the fabric fell to my knees, my cock sprang free. It was already hard.

“Interesting morphology,” he murmured. “Different from the local patients.”

He took hold of it as though examining an artery. He began moving his hand, slow and methodical, his thumb circling the head. His eyes gleamed behind his glasses.

“I need a sample,” he said. “For analysis.”

He picked up a plastic cup from the desk and kept masturbating me without taking his eyes off me. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, alternating the rhythm, squeezing the base, stopping just before I came, letting me subside and then building me up again. When I was finally about to burst, he placed the cup beneath the head. I released several spurts into it, moaning softly, biting my lip so I wouldn’t wake the entire hospital. The doctor raised the cup to the light of the lamp and examined it like a wine taster, then drank it down in one swallow without looking away from me. He licked his lips.

“Proteins,” he said. “Good for your health.”

He helped me get dressed and escorted me back to my room. In the hallway, beneath the yellow emergency lights, I had the feeling I was walking across another planet.

***

On the third day, I had no fever. The nurse told me I could shower and that Kwame would help me. Kwame appeared with a towel and soap, took me to the communal bathroom, and locked the main door.

“Naked,” he said.

I took off my pajamas. He removed his uniform unhurriedly, hanging it on the hook, and stood naked in front of me. His body was exactly as I had imagined it beneath his clothes: defined abs, veined arms, long legs. His cock hung between his thighs, thick even at rest. When he grabbed it and shook it a couple of times, it grew and grew until it pointed straight up, a full eight inches, the dark head gleaming beneath the fluorescent tube.

“Today I fuck you,” he said. “I waited two days. Today you can take it.”

He turned on the tap. The water came out warm. He put me beneath the stream and began soaping me as though it were a ritual. His hands moved over my chest, back, and stomach. When they reached my ass, his fingers lingered. He squeezed my cheeks, spread them, and slowly pushed one finger inside me, using the soap as lubricant. I let out a long gasp, and he smiled against my neck.

“Tight,” he said. “Good.”

He pulled his finger out, soaped his hand, and ran it over his cock. He turned me toward the tiled wall and placed my palms against the tiles. Water ran down my back. Kwame spread my cheeks with his thumbs and pressed the head against my hole.

“Breathe,” he said. “It’ll hurt at first.”

He pushed. I felt the burning shoot up my spine. I bit my forearm to keep from screaming. He entered me little by little, millimeter by millimeter, never pulling completely out, giving me time to get used to him. When the head overcame the ring, I moaned long and hard against the wall. Kwame paused for a moment, waiting, his fingers digging into my hips.

“There,” he said. “Now easy.”

He continued pushing until he was all the way in. Once he was fully inside me, he pressed against my back, breathing into my nape, letting me feel the way he throbbed inside me.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Hot. Tight. Made for this.”

He began to move. Slowly at first, with long thrusts that reached deep inside me, then faster and deeper, holding my hips with his thumbs digging in. Water fell over us and filled the bathroom with heavy steam. My forehead was pressed against the tiles, my mouth open, moaning every time he pulled out and entered me again. At some point, the pain turned into something else. I pushed my ass back against him, seeking him, asking for more without saying it.

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” he chuckled softly in my ear. “Now you like it.”

He drove into me faster, harder, slamming my thighs against his. I was masturbating myself against the tiles with one hand, slippery with soap, and I came first, long and silently, semen spilling between my fingers and my legs trembling. Kwame came twenty seconds later, inside me, with a hoarse grunt against my neck. I felt the hot spurts filling me for the first time in my life. When he pulled out, the semen and water ran together down the backs of my thighs toward the drain.

We dried ourselves in silence. Kwame ran the towel over my back like any ordinary nurse and returned me to my room.

***

Adisa appeared that afternoon. Big, solid, as though he belonged to another world. He sat on the edge of my bed without asking. In the back of the room, Kwame sorted medications and avoided looking at us. Adisa indicated him with his chin.

“He takes good care of you.”

“Very good care,” I said, making no effort to hide my smile.

Adisa let out a brief, deep laugh. He knew. Of course he knew. There was a spark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I spoke to the doctor. You’re being discharged tomorrow.”

I nodded. I said nothing.

“Good,” he added, standing up, “because I have plans for you when you come back to the village.”

“What kind of plans?”

He smiled slowly. One of those smiles that didn’t answer, but promised.

“You’ll see.”

He left the room. Kwame watched him until he disappeared down the hallway, then turned his head and winked at me. I lay back against the pillow, still smelling soap on my skin and feeling a tired ache in my ass.

I had two months left on my scholarship. I was going back to Adisa’s village the next day. I was going back to Kwame the following month, when it was time for my follow-up tests. And for the first time in years, I understood why I had crossed so many miles.