Mlanga stopped at the bedside of a pitiful-looking young man wrapped in bandages from his head to his chest. "Fires are a big problem," he said. "This little fellow came to us a week ago. He has a seizure problem. He had a fit when no one was watching him and he rolled into the fire. We grafted some skin from his legs and he'll probably do okay if we can keep him from getting infected."
Next he stopped at the bed of a smiling girl of about six. He put his hand on her head and said, "Azula has been with us for about a month now, but she is about ready to go home. She came in with meningitis. Fortunately the antibiotics have worked and I think she is going to be as good as ever." Her mother came in from the veranda. Mr. Mlanga smiled approvingly, "This mother has been here every day. She has never gone home and I have been telling her what a good mother she is. She says that if Azula gets better it will be Allah's will, but she knows it could not have happened without the medicines."
We approached another bed. Mr. Mlanga turned to me and said quietly, "This poor little one is not going to make it. I've tried all the antibiotics that I have available but nothing seems to help. I think the mother knows that her child will die, but she will not give up," he said, placing his hand on her shoulder and whispering some words intended to encourage.
"While the mothers are here, we try to teach them about nutrition. One of our nurses, Mrs. Nknwala, has a project teaching them to cook good meals for their children and the mothers are very eager to learn. Unfortunately when they go back to the village they do not have the variety of foods or the money for food for their children".
The ward was filled with hope and despair. An image beyond my control entered my mind . . . the day the Allies entered Dachau. Frail bodies, haunting eyes, hopeless stares but hope never totally abandoned. Some would live and some would die, regardless of what anyone could do for them.
Next, we toured the operating theater, maternity ward and a surprisingly well-stocked pharmacy, its shelves lined with medications. "The problem is that we never get what we need, Memsab," the elderly store keeper explained, "Like now, we have plenty of malaria medicine and medicine for parasites, but not enough penicillin."
Mr. Mlanga showed me the generator next to the supply room. "We only need to use it every once in a while, thank God. Like when we must do an emergency surgery or a Caesarean section at night. Still, it is a far cry from having to operate by lantern, like we used to do."
The next building was the oldest and most neglected. "This is our T.B. ward," Mr. Mlanga explained. "We have about sixty cases now and each one must stay in the hospital until the medications starts to work, usually about three months."
Women, children and men sat on beds in the “female” ward. "We've found it's useless to try to separate them so we just treat the whole family," he explained before I could ask the obvious. Next was the men's ward. It was half-filled. Most of its occupants were elderly. "Men do not like the hospital. They come only if it is absolutely necessary and leave as soon as they possibly can. If they feel they are dying, they insist on having their families take them home."
The women's medical ward was across the compound, near the kitchen. It, too, was surprisingly under-occupied. The nurse, explained. "Many of the women wander away from the ward if they are feeling strong enough." One who could not wander was lying on her bed in traction. "Her leg is broken. Her husband beat her," the nurse quietly explained. "He said that she was cheeky and did not give him respect."
A thin woman sat on a bed, an IV feeding into her arm. "Cancer," Mr. Mlanga said. "She would be better off back at her village but her family will not have it. They feel that her illness has been caused by a curse which might spread to the entire village if she returned."
Two other women returned from the sunshine and sat upon their beds so that they could be examined. One was suffering from anemia and the hospital staff had been trying unsuccessfully to get her family to understand what was involved in donating blood; the other was an elderly blind woman in the last stages of recovering from malaria, soon to return home.
As we passed along the footpath back to the main section of the hospital, the medical assistant pointed out a small brick building with two doors but no windows. "That is where we keep the patients who are deranged. We do not get too many patients like this. They mostly stay in the village. But sometimes we must use these rooms before we send the patient to the Zomba Mental Hospital."
I was becoming uncomfortable with the amount of time that the medical assistant was spending on my orientation, especially since on every ward he had promised to return to deal with one problem or another.
"I must let you get back to your work," I said.
"Not to worry. It has been my pleasure." He drew out his good-byes as if to prove that he had enjoyed my company.
Almost as an afterthought, I asked my own burning question, "Do you get many cases of snake bite at the hospital?"
He put his head back and laughed, "No, Madam, almost never," he said, assuaging my deepest fears, then adding, "Oh, no. Most cases of snake bite never make it to the hospital!"
I walked down the dirt road, past the "cloob" to my new home. It was almost five o'clock and I was exhausted. I flopped on my bed. Two hours later Ali awakened me, "Madam, when would you like your dinner? I do not want to over-cook your roast," the voice came from outside my bedroom door.
"Oh, any time you are ready," I responded, suddenly aware that I was delaying his departure to his village to visit his wives and to attend mosque in the morning. To compensate, I said, "No need to come back until lunch time Saturday, Ali."
"No, madam. I will come back tomorrow. I must be here for your dinner."
Chapter 7. They Also Serve Who....
After dinner I wrote home. The letter was censored compared to what I was actually thinking, but parents cannot be expected to be comforted by a first letter from their daughter talking about her loneliness, lack of confidence and fear she would not be able to endure the experience she had chosen for herself. I wrote instead about the river, my new home and the hospital, remaining as upbeat and as confident as my mood would allow. (When I returned home my mother gave me the scrapbook she had made of my letters home. I've never had the heart to read them. I couldn’t bear to confront so many of my lies.)
Then I enclosed myself in my mosquito net and began to read. At five minutes to eleven the lights flickered once and a few minutes later they went out. I set my novel aside in mid-sentence and closed my eyes. I knew that sleep would not come easily, but nothing prepared me for the interminability of each minute alone in the dark.
I didn't invite them but they came nonetheless---the sounds that pierced the night. The first ones were from on the floor beside me. At one point, I turned on the flashlight I kept inside my net. Stealthy and fearful in the light of day, but nocturnally intrepid, cockroaches scurried over the concrete floor, curious, perhaps, about their new housemate. Strangely, they did not bother me; I made an immediate decision to coexist. They could own the night and I would own the day.
Outside the house, dogs barked and voices rose---loud voices of laughing men leaving the bar at the corner, howls cutting through the night air like madmen on the prowl. From across the river, the rhythmic pounding of drums gave evidence that all life in Fort Johnston did not cease when the diesel generator slowed to a halt. I could hear singing and clapping. Occasionally a loud shriek injected itself into the midst of the reverie. Once I was certain I heard a hyena on the near side of the river---an eerie, unworldly cry---and I was sure that I heard the bellowing of
