

the ponderings of a humanitarian aid worker





When we got to the village we heard that her cousin was sick, so we walked through the village to where the patient was being cared for at her fathers house. We paused to greet every person we passed, and for each an explanation of relation was given; 'this is my sisters daughters husband', 'this is my fathers brothers wife', 'this my fathers other wife's sister', 'this is my other sisters daughter', 'this is my husbands relative' (too hard basket :).
We entered the large, half built brick house, greeted everyone in the dark corridor and were seated at the door of the patients room. He was probably early 30's, stretched out on his back, skin and bone, every breath an effort. 'He has sores on his legs' Swa- explained helpfully. We sat in the dim, resigned silence of the house. This man was going to die.
After afew minutes my 'western analytical' brain kicked in. 'Have they taken him to hospital- why isn't this man in hospital?' I asked. I knew he wouldn't have a bed there, but there might be something they could do- something they could give him more than orange cordial... Swa- spoke with her parents in hushed voices and finally answered 'they say they do not want the doctor to yell at them for bringing him now, and if he dies there it will be too difficult to bring his body back'. We took our leave and walked back to where her sisters were sitting, but she was troubled 'too many people are dying of strange sickness now' she said.
I enjoyed hanging out with Swa- her 4 sisters and their cloud of children. We sat and ate guavas and maize while the kids played or suckled and the sisters talked and laughed. It made me miss family and appreciate the strenght of this matrilineal culture. Here, the women usually stay. Men marry into the womans family and move to the womans village. In this village each daughter had a house within 30m of their mothers house. Their auntys were 100m away, creating a strong sense of community and belonging. It also creates a level of security whereby the women have support if their husband takes a second/third wife- or he is trouble and they send him packing...
The conversation turned serious again- back to their cousin. There were raised voices, frustration. Swa- explained. The man had been taken to the hospital a long time ago- for 2 months, but then they took him to his wifes house. His wife stayed elsewhere and didn't care for him so they brought him to her fathers house to die. She offered to take him to the hospital- we had a car here- but the family said 'no'. They were afraid of the hospitals way. If someone comes back too many times and is not getting better, then they give them an injection and they die. They reminded her that when their sister was in the hospital the nurse came to give an injection and everyone around said 'what is this? is she that sick?' and a few minutes later their sister was dead.
How can I process this?! Is the hospital proactively killing terminally ill patients-or is this belief a culmination of too many people being taken to the hospital too late? There is a strong belief here that the hospital is where you go to die- no wonder the doctor yells. My housemate who did 7 weeks of nursing at the hospital assures me nothing of the sort goes on. Its all coincidence and rumours.
Before we left I took some photos and captured some of the dynamics of these beautiful sisters. I felt honoured to be included. They said I had to come back to eat ugali and pumpkin with them as a proper welcome. I look forward to it.
I was woken by a phone call this morning. ‘Hello Lina- I just want to tell you that patient we visited- he is dead. Yes. I am going there now'.