On one occasion a set of photographs of the hospital was in
preparation, and when the _salle de pansements_ had to be taken the
photographer decided that the best lay figure for his _mise-en-scene_
would be a black man, as a striking contrast to the white raiment of the
staff. So Samedou was carried in on a stretcher and laid upon the table.
Unfortunately the surgeons and nurses were so occupied with the business
of placing things in the best light that no one realised that the poor
Senegalese did not understand the purpose of the preparations, and when
the English nurse was called to take up her position she noticed the
hands of Samedou Kieta clutching the sides of the table and his black
eyes rolling in a sea of white.
She at once ran to the nearest ward. "Quelqu'un voudrait bien me preter
une photographie?" she asked, and a dozen eager hands offered her the
treasured groups of _la famille_. Taking one at random she returned to
Samedou and held it before his eyes. "Nous aussi," she said, "toi, moi,
le Major, l'infirmier."
Samedou looked, and a heavenly relief chased the tension from his face.
"Y a bon," he said happily. "Toi, bon camarade!"
When his wounds began to be less painful the problem was how to keep the
Sidi in bed. No one cared to be very severe with him, so the staff
resorted to the usual weak method of confiscating all his clothes save a
shirt, and hoping for the best. But one day the English nurse, going
unexpectedly into a distant ward, came upon Samedou Kieta, simply
dressed in a single shirt and a bandage, visiting the freshly-arrived
wounded and scattering wide grins around him.
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