In 2007 I got testicular torsion. In Trinidad and Tobago, the health industry lifts eyebrows on a daily basis, and here I was, a twenty-five-year-old man, spinning wildly through various hospital corridors, trying desperately to save my manhood. Don't let the name of the book distract you. It isn't smutty, it's simply an account, humourous, painful and true, with honest commentary on the state of private and public healthcare in an emerging economy.
Without warning, a searing pain struck. My goodness, what was it? It was neither my stomach nor appendix, but my testicles. No. . . it was only a testicle, my right ball to be precise. I became stunned and only through divine intervention regained my balance, but not my composure, and with wild gesticulations, six feet above ground level, I grasped the ladder. I still do not believe that being either shot or knifed is as painful as the pangs which, like little red devils armed with electric pitchforks, stabbed the areas around and through my groin. Given man’s proclivity to intently guard his genitals, I hastened to cup my source of dismay, movements which catapulted the tin of paint off the ladder’s platform.