Confronting Ebola

On social media friends related to a young woman were seeking information on ambulance services for the husband who needed immediate attention.  No one had answers. 
The young woman reportedly drove the husband to the nearest hospital but on arrival nurses refused to attend to her husband for fear of contracting ebola. 

Clearly traumatized this young woman, simply kept screaming for help until eventually a doctor came out ..... to pronounce the husband dead.  She was then asked to carry her corpse away. She did find the courage to do just that and found a health facility in one of Accra's suburbs that received the corpse.

This was August 13, 2014 and the young woman is now a widow with a soon to be one year old. But those are just the sorry details. Angry friends on the social media platform called the medical personnel who refused to attend to the dead man, "unpatriotic" Ghanians who were only interested in the benefits of their jobs. 

But were the medical personnel being unjustifiably insensitive or even "wicked" as they were called or were they plainly and legitimately afraid.

Some have suggested that the Ghana government's 3 month moratorium on international conferences and public gatherings is unnecessarily harsh.  I think the government's response is no different from that of the nurses and the doctor who would have nothing; or is rather are helpless when it comes to handling anything to do with ebola- real or potential.

 

Chicken Prescription

We went in to see how the ailing elderly woman was doing. She had arrived at the medicine man’s place the night before with a bloated, taut tummy and experiencing severe abdominal pain.

She lay on her side on a mat, using her arms for a pillow and spoke and breathed with obvious difficulty. Her daughter, a woman of about 50 years who was with her, sought to contain our anxiety with assurances that the medicine man was famous for the potency of his medicine; the ailing woman was a long-time patient of this medicine man and that the condition of the patient had improved since the night before. We remained quizzical.

The 6 foot cubicle in which the ailing woman lay was dark except for the streaks of sunlight coming through the doorway when the door was opened and cracks in the wall joints. A little gap had been left between the lintel and the roofing sheets but much of the space was blocked with wood and rags.  A lone candle stood on the bare cemented floor less than a foot away from the ailing woman’s feet. In a corner was a carrier bag which seemed to be carrying the patient’s belongings. Not much else was in the room or could have been except the little stool that I got to sit on at her feet.

The ailing woman had been brought to the medicine man’s village from a clinic situated in one of the major districts of Accra and about an hour’s drive away. Recent history has it that the patient was placed on “drip” at the clinic; a rather routine clinical first aid practice in ‘clinics”. Why this is so, I cannot tell ... for now. Obviously this did not impress those who took the old lady to the clinic nor the old lady herself; hence the decision to seek the medicine man.

Suffice it to say, this is how come for the first time in my lengthy life, I came to meet a medicine man. Contrary to expectations, he was a rather harmless looking fellow. Tall and weary looking, he wore a pair of black togas (long shorts), a knee length lacy tunic and orange flip flops to match.   I suspect the weariness came from the prospect of explaining his trade to a wide-eyed ignoramus. His words were few, calm and self-assured.  

He had administered some medication to the ailing woman he said, which had delivered much of the offending guests from the patient’s tummy. As we spoke, he was awaiting delivery of a cock to him. He explained that in his line of work, an important and indeed primary business process entailed seeking direction from the powers that be. I believe some people would dare call this diagnosis. And what did the cock have to do with this? Well, on its arrival, some rituals were to be done; a letter would be scribbled on a piece of paper and voila, the direction as to which herbs were to be collected and what concoction was to be cooked would become evident. I am not sure who was to do the scribbling but I suspect the cock on death row would undoubtedly leave its marks after its throat was slit.  

Herbalists, traditional healers, native doctors or in this case medicine men - have often been criticized because of their unorthodox methods and potentially hazardous processes; take a prescription writing cockerel and the ailing old lady's "ward" for example. However, the growing sense that there is a "science" behind what they do is no more worthy of debate so perhaps its time they did away with the mysticism and embraced "cleaner" methods for taking care of their patients. Especially since often times, the choice is between the medicine man and lousy service at the clinic. 

Scenes From The Big Hospital (3)

A Negotiation

 “..That’s how it’s done here. You have to pay things separately” he tells me furtively, looking the part of the helpless messenger of the unbelievable news. I ask if I will get a receipt and rather than a response, the young doctor goes off to confer with lord knows who; but not without informing me of the price of the “gun”. I am left baffled. Two days earlier, I had paid what was due and more at the accounts section of this particular sacred confraternity which by all indications is indeed the very heart of the big hospital. I had the receipt in hand as proof and was therefore having a real difficulty, not to mention a practical one, comprehending the request. Someone pulling the puppet’s strings wanted a portion of the money to be collected from the accounts section and handed over to this very same young round stooge of an elite club whose members dissolved and reconstituted depending on the job at hand.

My mind drifts to the “gun” for which I am grateful to the young man. Barely a month ago, I had secured one from a Sister of the fraternity. It had been put out of service in a first procedure undertaken by the very same multi-skilled young med. Right, some enlightenment may be necessary here. The thing is this; the gun is really a special devise for drawing liquids and tissue from parts of the body for examination. It can only be used once just like needles for injections. My good friend here had managed to remove considerable substance with the first gun. This was duly sent off for examination in a place not to be reached without a stamp in a little green book. After 2 weeks of waiting, the results came back “no result” because apparently nothing useful had been offered for the examination; thus the current tussle.

The young doctor’s return rouses me from my reverie. “There will be no receipt” he tells me. I ask again if I could at least get a hand written undertaking that I have parted (doubly if you please) with a certain amount of money for a said contribution to a procedure. This sends him off again to confer with the unseen hand. He returns presently with a man who walks rapidly towards us. He is obviously the linchpin, for in a voice and manner very different from the stooge’s, he announces that he is a very busy man. He has things to do elsewhere and if the money paid to the accounts section is not returned to him the procedure could very well be postponed to another day. He is agitated, almost angry, flinging his arms about and all the time pacing around. My relative and I are beside ourselves. What ensues would be called cajoling, begging, pleading, bidding, all at the same time.  In the end, the king of hearts (bless his heart) whose subjects have gone awol descends to our aid. He manages to get the accounts section to release a portion of the money already paid, to the ill-tempered doctor whose protégé botched the first procedure. That does not end it; we get a list of to buys (items that were all covered in the cost of the procedure already paid) including stuff like gauze and others of a special kind only to be procured from our negotiating partners.  

All this while, the old man has been lying on the stretcher in the lobby. He made the more than 90km journey to the big hospital in an ambulance; arriving at noon for the procedure that had been scheduled for 2pm. As I turn in his direction I am fiercely fighting the very thought that this may be the final stretch. But at this very moment, as I look at his half paralysed, shrunken body waiting the butchery of an already agitated negotiator, I wish he is not awake to this frightful haggle.

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

Scenes From The Big Hospital (2)

 A Transaction

She sits facing the door with her head bent over a notebook; dressed in all white with lipstick to match. Her straightened hair, dry with split ends, flays about her face in the hot air blowing from the rusted standing fan directed at her. She seems to be writing something but this task is so frequently interrupted with orders at someone or the other, singing and excited nodding to a radio pastor’s exhortations that it is quite certain it would be another hour before she journeys across one ruled line in her notebook. Her desk is cluttered with files. Two chairs and a bench are positioned across from her. The people who have managed to squeeze onto the seats including those who are leaning against the walls are chattering in low tones and looking on helplessly at the intense activity of gum chewing at the desk.

The radio is at full blast even though it is not visible. A man in blue overalls is manipulating the radio from behind a curtain that divides the room into a waiting/ consulting area and an examination area. We have so far travelled all the local language stations where either some politician is receiving a backlash from commentators or a man of God is delivering miracles. After hanging about the spirit world for a bit, she asks the man in blue overalls to search for BBC- much to my relief. Unfortunately we never manage to catch the BBC because Blue Overalls keeps skipping it! I want to tell him, “that’s it, that’s it” every time he gets to the station but for some reason I cannot find my voice. Without raising her head, she has so far silenced anyone who tried to attract her attention through various innovative pretentions. She carries on with all the activity afore mentioned as if oblivious to the people in the room and yet all to the benefit of her audience.

I resign myself to the wait and instead take out my note book to jot down matters of interest about the environment to keep me from losing it – my head I mean. I have been standing adjacent the bespectacled Sister for 40 minutes and I figure something must come out of all this in the end.

A few minutes after airing my note book, Sister takes a sudden interest in me. “You are writing about us?” she asks. “Off course not”! I respond with a sly smile. There’s no gain blowing my chance of getting my hands on the gun. It has been two weeks since the good doctor prescribed a procedure which required the use of what they called a biopsy gun and only the timely intervention of another whose knowledge of the dark and mysterious ways of Sister’s world has unearthed this one. Officials at Sister’s big hospital had said it was not available, even to buy. So when the call came from the insider that one was available at the same place in the same hospital, I just knew it was coming at admirable cost.

 

Sister reaches into a drawer under her desk and reveals a black polythene bag. For the first time, she smiles to acknowledge the good lady that brought me here, hands the polythene over to her and says, (..) Ghana Cedis. I quickly dig into my purse.The theatrics is over and the deal is done.

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com

Scenes From The Big Hospital (1)

An Appointment

I get there at 9am thinking I am in good time for a meeting with the doctor who I am told is usually available at 10am. I am surprised by what I see; the waiting area is chocked with people – sick and not; standing and in wheel chairs or on stretchers. There is hardly any standing room so many more people are standing or crouched outside.  

Some skittish nurses are strutting about, chatting and at intervals moving files about aimlessly as part of what seems to be a ritual to look busy. Nonetheless nothing is happening. There’s a big meeting happening someplace and though only the chief priests are attending, nothing is happening. I show the referral note to the nurses and I am told to "hang around" and wait for the doctor to come. So I "hang around" listlessly as I watch the old man’s puzzled examination of the goings-on about us. There's not much else to do anyway except actively try to block off the buzz (ocassional wailing of a child or elderly person,  multiples of hushed conversations and the Nigerian movie showing on the TV) and stare at the floor.

                                                                                                                                      

About 11am; a rustle from beyond the hall, nurses hurrying through swinging doors. By some instinct I figure this must be ushering in the celebrated king of hearts. I accost him (just knew it was him) as he pushes through the waiting bodies; “Hello are you doctor…”. “Err...Maybe”, he replies still moving. I am not to be thrown off easily so I determine he is who I think he is and I skirt around the people in pursuit. He enters a consulting room bustling with at least 5 young men in white overalls and a few giggling females in white. I am left sharing the doorway with other pursuers. There’s no room to step inside but I intend to attract attention to myself so I ask, “May I come in?”  I am hoping the answer will lead to someone making way for me to enter the consulting room. “No” is the answer. “Could I wait for you?” That’s a silly question as everyone is waiting but as is said often, desperate situations call for desperate measures. There is no answer this time but he is sporting a smirk which given the circumstances, I find encouraging.

The seeming good natured, sufficiently good looking but brash man leaves his desk. He seems to have developed a sudden need for air as he rushes through the door leading into the open air. I am hot on his heels. He stops suddenly after walking briskly some 3 minutes and turns around. I am almost panting when I catch up and I virtually push the note at him. He seems amused by my obvious naivety and asks me to give the note to the nurses.

Its midday now and the nurse has just asked me to go and get a card. From the cage that holds the man producing the cards I look over the waiting hall. Those with long necks have stretched them full height while those with shorter ones are standing on their toes in an attempt to hear their names mentioned by any of the roving nurses. I am not certain whether the extra height aids hearing; in any case once every 20minutes, 5 names are yelled out and a “y...e...e...s madam” is yelled back in response from somewhere in the room. As I wait for my card, I wonder when it would be my turn to yell.

akuyaafriyie@gmail.com