What It’s Like To Put A Catheter Into A Penis During A Military Coup
Fear, piss, and friendship
Autofiction — Travel
Freeman’s ass is leaking.
My lap is drenched in my best friend’s sweat, blood, and what I hope is bile. Armand — our Congolese landlord who tolerates Freeman’s cat fetish — is driving like a demon through the streets of Goma. Hazard lights flashing against a night so thick you could bottle it and sell it as a new Guinness flavor called “Peacekeeper’s Regret.”
Something happened hours ago, and no one told us.
Checkpoints are appearing more frequently. Tanks too. We pass a burning motorcycle. No one blinks.
In the distance, the orange hue from burning rubber drifts against the pale moonlight as American gangster rap blared from passing cars.
“I fucking love culture,” I muttered and sparked another cigarette.
It had started with eggs.
Earlier that afternoon, Freeman had emerged from Armand’s courtyard kitchen with a steaming Tupperware in a gown much too small for him.
Freeman, my 55-year-old American best friend and business partner, was once a wedding photographer in Mauritius. He targeted Creole couples low on money before leaving the island to work as a Kindergarten teacher for the WHO in Rhodesia, as he continues to call it. That’s how we met. He spoke like Gatsby but dressed like an abusive uncle.
“I saw the recipe on YouTube,” he said.
I peered inside.
“Eggs?” I asked.
“Boiled,” he nodded. “Then shocked in cold water and marinated for one hour in soy sauce, fresh chilis, parsley, Robitussin, creatine powder, and ketchup. You eat them standing up. Stay clenched. Cleanses the system.”
He popped one in his mouth.
By 11 p.m., he was curled in the fetal position, moaning. Not from regret. Freeman doesn’t regret. He just leaks.
“I need a doctor,” he gasped.
“There’s a hospital in Goma,” I yelled in terror. More burning rubber fell from the overpass. Silhouettes danced in the fire’s glow. The people had taken to the streets to either defend their country or burn the whole thing down. Who knew?
Armand shrugged. “If the rebels haven’t hit it yet.”
“Rebels?” No one had mentioned rebels.
“Yes, the UAFFFA. They angry,” Armand seemed nervous.
“The what?” I asked.
Freeman piped up, “The United African Freedom Fighting Force Association, you illiterate bogger. Damn you Peta. I swore I wouldn’t die with an idiot,”
“Me idiot?” He always blamed me. “It’s you, man. And those eggs of death. Who takes such risks on the continent?”
“I need the vape?” Freeman was passing out.
“Vape? And go where? When has egg ass medicine?” I was angry. He had ruined my Tuesday, and we had lessons the next morning.
Soon, among the sirens and ghetto music, we arrived at the hospital where Freeman was wheeled in, blood dripping from his white ass.
Surrounded by doctors and nurses, Freeman was hurried into the ICU.
I stood there alone after Armand left. Said, “I did my part,” then took off.
The waiting room was just like any other. Cold, dirty, old National Geographic magazines with white people on the covers. On the TV, the news was of the Rwandan invasion, rebels, and a passing mention of California, Trump, and Elon Musk.
After four hours, a doctor came out and said, “No hope.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant Freeman, me, or the country.
I didn’t care. I just sat down and stared at the time-travel LSD vape and contemplated leaving Freeman to rot. After all, who marinates eggs in cough syrup?
But as usual, I stayed.
The next morning, I was allowed to see my fallen comrade.
When I walked in, he was naked, flat on his back, with a terrified nurse holding a plastic tube.
The nurse looked at me like I should already know.
“Insert it,” she whimpered in French, handing me a packet labeled Urethral Entry Kit: Type B. It was damp. Everything was damp. The walls, my collar, Freeman’s fevered forehead. His scarred penis.
“Moi?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Il est votre mari?”
“No,” I said. “My business partner.”
She handed me the gloves anyway.
They wheeled Freeman into a side room that smelled like detergent and fatigue. The ceiling fan clicked like a pistol with bad timing.
The nurse disappeared. Freeman groaned.
“Peta,” he slurred. “Did you ever get the rights to that children’s book we wrote?”
“What?”
“The one about the floating giraffe and the girl with no hands…”
“No, Freeman. You refused to edit out the part about the moon being a satellite. Children publishers don’t like weird shit. Now shut up, I need to put this is in your penis.”
“Do it, pussy.” he muttered. His penis flinched.
I stared down at the kit.
Latex gloves. Lubricant. Tube. Instructions in Portuguese. A red tray shaped like a lowercase ‘b’. I’d changed a tire in the rain before. I figured this was similar, except it involved my best friend’s penis.
I gloved up.
“Alright,” I muttered. “Let’s do this.”
I pulled the blanket back. It was worse than I expected. Everything looked swollen, like a pink balloon animal made by a god in a hurry. I’d known Freeman for ten years. I’d seen him weep during A Clockwork Orange and barter with child soldiers for cigarettes. But I had never seen him this exposed.
Or this anatomically confusing.
“Where’s the…entry… Freeman, where’s the entrance?” I asked.
“Follow the light,” he whispered through a cough-soaked chuckle.
“Shut up.” I snapped. He was enjoying this too much. Outside, helicopters buzzed above the hospital.
I coated the tube in something that claimed to be sterile lubricant but smelled like spoiled aloe and Vicks VapoRub. I took a breath.
Then I inserted.
He groaned. Not a scream. Not a cry. Just a single, low-frequency groan — like a whale calling its lawyer.
“I fucking hate you,” he said.
“I know.”
The catheter slid in. Too easily. Like it had done this before.
Seconds later, warm urine flowed into the tray.
Freeman sighed. His eyes fluttered.
“You’re a good nurse,” he murmured.
“You smell like cat food and decay,” I said.
“Peta?” Freeman whispered.
“What?”
“If I die, Vape me back to Idaho, 1994.”
“Whatever.” I knew what he meant. Idaho. 1994. The year he left behind his one true love to go in search of the great Eastern dream. Who knew dreams could lead to such places? A small house in the country with a wife and kids traded for excitement and terror.
Watching him whimper as bloody urine escaped his body, I couldn’t help but think of my own choices and if I should have just forgotten the dream, compromised, and become a milkman in some Irish village drinking six pints a night before going home to an angry wife.
We sat there for a moment — two men, one tube, and the smell of near-death and marinated eggs.
Outside, someone screamed.
Maybe a gunshot.
Maybe slaughter.
Inside, Freeman slept, finally.
And I wondered if the hospital would give me a doctor’s note for missing school.
The days passed, and the heat cooled. I still don’t know who was fighting whom. And why would I? I’m doing all of this to forget my problems, not solve theirs.
Sadly, this is inspired by true events.
What?! True events? NO, NO, NO. Cough syrup on eggs? I don't know if I'll recover from this. You'd better still be here, Freeman 💔