I almost swallowed when I gargled the warm salt water to disinfect the wounds in my mouth, the aftercare prescribed by the dentist after I had two of my teeth removed a week ago. With all due respect to mothers, to those who might suggest childbirth or the second day of period pain, a toothache is worse than any pain experienced by the human body, and it is not up for debate.
Thank the gods if you’ve never experienced a toothache. My experience was nothing new. I’ve gone through four extractions at just twenty-eight. The first time was the worst. I literally felt my soul leaving my body. To this day I highly suspect the dentist didn’t give me enough anesthetic. As if that wasn’t enough, the second extraction was during my final exams, a coincidence from which one might reasonably conclude that you’ve been caught up in a family feud and a sekuru has been blowing wind in your direction.
Ten years later, I found myself in the dungeon of toothaches again. Trouble had grown at the very far end of the left jaw, famously known as the wisdom tooth. On the opposite side, but close enough to the front that when I smiled you would catch a glimpse of the hole, next to the canines.
I remember the exact events that led me to getting them extracted. I was having lunch at one of the restaurants at Athlone shops, where I had made friends with one of the chefs when I first started staying in Greendale. Only a few bites of a vegetable lodged themselves in the developing hole, hit straight to the nerve, and I jumped out of the chair in agony. A toothache is nothing to play with; your head starts reeling and your eyes get teary, and meanwhile, anger boils in your heart. I walked out leaving my dish still more than half full, with no more appetite to feed. This was a breaking point!
The following day I went to get medical attention, but it was Saturday so most of the dental clinics in the Harare CBD closed early. At first I tried to support my church by going to the United Methodist Church clinic, but I thought the fees were a bit too hefty for a church, especially one that I belong to.
I immediately rang my homeboy who is a dentist way out in Bulawayo. I just wanted a reference to one of his peers in Harare, which he gave me right away. I walked to this dental surgery with the conviction that my decision was final—I was getting fed up with simply being unable to feed myself properly. The dentist was not there when I arrived, so I started talking to the guys who seemed to work there. The conversation was easygoing until the dentist arrived and hurriedly identified me as a patient. Without further ado, I lay down on the bed, obeying instructions to open my mouth wide enough for examination. Within a minute I was getting jabbed in the areas that needed extraction.
One thing for sure is the dentist did a great job. I felt no pain throughout the process, and within minutes I was escorted back to reception as he explained how I needed to treat the wounds left behind to avoid further complications. I sat down on one of the benches wondering why we never discussed the cost before starting the whole process, when a voice shot from the other side of the reception: it was the same guy I was chatting with before the dentist came. “Everything has come to $120.” I almost threw up the cotton holding back the blood from the wounds. I was shocked by the charge, as I had expected to pay only something like $50 at most.
I gathered myself and looked at the guy again, shaking my head in despair. He must have seen it in my eyes. I asked if this was a joke or something. I had the money tucked away somewhere in my pockets, but I felt like I was being swindled in Harare. I told him that I thought it would not cost me more than $20 for each tooth, and he explained that a wisdom tooth costs $80. Moreover, who was I to walk into someone’s business and tell them how to price their service?
I remained adamant and showed him evidence that I had indeed asked around about prices before making the decision. I told him I did not have such an amount, leaving us at a crossroads. What was the solution now that the dentist had already done the work? It was not my fault, I thought.
I immediately texted my brother, who is a nurse, about the ordeal. He told me it was illegal for them to charge after the service. I generously took out $60, handed it to the receptionist, and told him that it was all the money I had. He accepted and wrote my receipt. After thanking him I left for the pharmacy to grab a painkiller.
I left this place with the invoice tension weighing me down more than the pain of extraction.
