Authors: Corinne Hofmann
Lketinga comes home in the evening and inspects all the rooms without even saying hello. I try to behave as normally as possible and offer him dinner, which he actually accepts: a sign that he’s staying. I’m pleased and build up my hopes again. But it’s not to be.
A
round nine p.m. I develop terrible stomach cramps. I lie in bed with my knees pulled up under my chin to make it just about bearable. But like that Napirai can’t feed. She’s with her papa, crying. This time he shows a bit of patience and walks up and down with her for hours singing, but she only quietens down for a bit and then starts up again. By midnight I feel so ill that I have to be sick. The whole meal comes up undigested. I vomit and vomit until there’s nothing left, just yellow bile. The floor is covered in it, but I feel too bad to clean it up. I’m cold and sure I’ve got a temperature.
Lketinga starts worrying and goes to fetch our next-door neighbour, even though it’s late. Before long she’s with me and cleans up the whole mess as if it’s no problem. She asks me worriedly if I might have malaria again. I don’t know and hope I won’t have to go back into hospital so soon. The stomach pains ease off a bit, and I can stretch out my legs again. Now I can feed Napirai at least.
The neighbour goes home, and my husband sleeps next to our bed on a second mattress. The next morning I’m not so bad and drink
chai
, which Lketinga’s made. But in less than half an hour the tea erupts uncontrollably from my mouth like a fountain. At the same time the stomach cramps start again, so fiercely that I have to squat down on the floor with my knees pulled up. After a while my stomach calms down again, and I start to wash the baby and her nappies. Before long I’m exhausted, even though for the moment I have neither a temperature nor cramps. Nor do I have the typical shivering fit, and I think it probably isn’t malaria but some sort of tummy bug.
For the next two days every attempt to eat or drink anything is useless. The pains come more frequently and last longer. My breasts start to shrink because I can’t keep any food down. The fourth day I’m totally exhausted and can’t even get up. My friend from next door comes every day and helps out, but I still have to breastfeed the baby.
Today Mama arrives because Lketinga’s been to fetch her. She feels around my stomach, causing terrible pains. Then she looks into my eyes. They’re yellow, and my face has gone a funny colour. She wants to know what I’ve eaten. But I’ve hardly had anything but water for several days. Napirai’s crying and wants feeding but I can’t manage, I can’t even hold her because I can’t sit up. Mama holds her to my loose breast, but I doubt that I’ve got enough milk and worry about how else my little girl is going to get fed. Because Mama doesn’t know what to make of my illness either, we decide to go to Wamba.
Lketinga drives, while my friend holds Napirai. I’m too weak. Of course we get a puncture en route. It’s unbelievable, I hate this car. With enormous effort I find myself some shade and feed Napirai while the other two carry out the wheel change. We get to Wamba late in the afternoon. I drag myself to the hospital reception and ask to see the Swiss doctor. An hour passes, and then the Italian doctor arrives. He asks what’s wrong with me and takes a blood sample. After a while they tell us that it’s not malaria. Tomorrow we’ll know more. Napirai will stay with me, while my friend and Lketinga drive back to Barsaloi, somewhat relieved.
We’re brought into the maternity unit again so that Napirai can sleep in a cot next to me. But because she’s not used to sleeping apart from me, she cries continuously until a nurse comes and gives her to me. Immediately she suckles herself to sleep. The next morning the female Swiss doctor turns up at last, but she is not pleased to see me and the child back again in such a state.
After an examination she gives her diagnosis: hepatitis! At first I don’t understand what that means. She explains it to me worriedly: a type of jaundice, or to be more precise a liver infection which is also contagious. My liver can’t process food anymore. The pains are brought on when I eat the tiniest amount of fat. From now on I’ll have to follow a strict diet, have complete rest and go into quarantine. Fighting back the tears, I ask her how long it’ll last. She looks at Napirai and me with
sympathy and says: ‘Six weeks at least.’ Then the contagious period will be over, but I’ll still be far from cured. They’ll also have to carry out tests on Napirai. I’ve almost certainly infected her. Now I can’t hold back the tears. The good doctor tries to console me, saying it’s not certain yet that Napirai’s been infected. But my husband too will have to be tested as soon as possible.
My head is swimming with all this depressing news. Two black sisters bring a wheelchair, and I’m taken into a completely different section of the hospital. I’m given a room with a toilet that has a glass wall but no door. The room can’t be opened from the inside. There’s a slot in the door that is used for passing meals in and out. It’s a new wing and the room looks nice, but I feel like a prisoner.
Our things are all taken away to be disinfected, and once again I’m dressed in a hospital gown. Then they examine Napirai who squeals like a stuck pig when they take a blood sample. I feel desperately sorry for her, she’s so small, barely six weeks old and has to suffer so much. I’m attached to a drip and get a jug of water sweetened with a pound of sugar. I’m to drink lots of sugared water because that’s the quickest way for the liver to heal itself. Then I need rest, absolute rest. That’s all that can be done for me. They take my baby away, and I cry myself to sleep in misery.
I wake up to bright sunshine but with no idea what time it is. The deathly silence scares me. There’s absolutely nothing to be heard, and if I want contact with the outside world I have to ring a bell. Then a black sister appears on the other side of the glass wall and speaks to me through the perforated opening. I want to know how Napirai is. She goes to fetch the doctor. Minutes pass, but they seem like hours to me in this silence. Then the doctor comes into my room. I’m shocked and ask if she won’t be infected. She laughs and says: ‘Hepatitis once, but never again!’ She had the disease herself years ago.
Then at last I get good news. Napirai is completely healthy, but she won’t drink either cow’s milk or powdered milk. With a shaking voice I ask if I really won’t be able to hold her for a whole six weeks. The doctor says that if she really won’t take any other form of food, then for better or worse I’ll have to feed her, although the risk of infection is enormous. It’s a miracle as it is that she hasn’t been infected.
Around five p.m. I get my first meal – rice with boiled cabbage and a tomato. I eat slowly and manage this time to hold down my little ration.
The pains resume but not so strongly. They bring Napirai to the glass twice to see me. My little girl is crying, and her stomach is caved in.
At lunch the next day the despairing sisters bring me my little brown bundle. I’m enveloped by an aura of happiness I haven’t known for ages. She reaches hungrily for my breast and soon calms down as she starts sucking. Looking at Napirai I realize that I need her if I’m to have the rest I need and find the strength to withstand this long isolation. She looks up at me with her big dark eyes as she’s feeding, and I have to pull myself away in case I hug her too tightly. When the doctor looks in later she says: ‘I see you two need one another, whether it’s to get healthy or to stay healthy!’ At last I can smile again and promise her to do my best.
Every day I have to force down three or four pints of extremely sweet water, which almost makes me throw up. Because I’m allowed salt now my food tastes better. For breakfast I get tea and a sort of crisp bread with a tomato or piece of fruit; for lunch and dinner it’s always the same: rice with or without boiled cabbage. Every third day they take blood and urine samples, and after a week I feel a bit better although still very weak.
Two weeks later, though, the next blow comes. From the urine samples they’ve determined that my kidneys are no longer functioning properly. It’s true that I had backache, but I’d put that down to continually lying down. Now I no longer get salt in my bland food, and I have a bottle attached to take my urine, which is painful. Every day I have to write down how much I drink and the nurse compares it with the bottle to see how much comes out again. I’d just got enough strength to take a few steps, and now I’m tied down to the bed again. At least Napirai is with me. Without her I’d have no will to live left. She must sense that I’m doing okay because since she’s been back with me she hasn’t been crying anymore.
Two days after I was brought in my husband came to be tested. He was healthy and hasn’t been back in the past ten days. I wasn’t exactly a pretty sight, and we couldn’t talk to one another. He stood there sadly in front of the glass panel for half an hour and then left. From time to time he sends me his best wishes. He misses us a lot and to kill the time spends most of it out with his herds, they tell me. Since they’ve heard in Wamba that there’s a
mzungu
in the hospital, strangers keep coming to see me, standing on the other side of the glass staring at me and the baby. It annoys me every time, and I pull the bed sheets over my head.
Time drags terribly, I either play with Napirai or read the paper. I’ve been here for two and a half weeks now and haven’t felt the sun or a breath of wind the whole time. I even miss the chirping of the cicadas and the singing of the birds. I’m slowly falling into depression. I think over my life and am quite clear that I’m homesick for Barsaloi and its inhabitants.
It’s nearly visiting time again, and I hide under the sheet when the nurse says I have visitors. I peer out and see my husband and another warrior in front of the glass. He’s beaming happily at Napirai and me. For a moment his handsome happy appearance gives me a high I haven’t felt for ages. How I’d love to go over to him, touch him and say, ‘Darling, no problem, everything becomes okay.’ Instead I hold Napirai so he can see his daughter from the front and point her papa out to her. She stamps up and down and waves her fat little arms and legs. When some strangers again try to peer through the glass, I notice my husband shoo them all away. I have to laugh, and he and his friend laugh too. His painted face is glistening in the sunshine. Oh, despite everything, I still love him. Then visiting time is over, and we wave to each other. My husband’s visit has given me the strength to get a grip on myself mentally.
At the end of the third week they remove the catheter for my urine, as the readings are now significantly better. At last I can wash properly, even take a shower. When the doctor comes round she’s amazed how pretty I’ve made myself. I’ve tied my hair up in a ponytail with a red ribbon and put lipstick on. I feel like a new woman. When she reveals to me that in a week’s time I’ll be able to go outside for fifteen minutes I’m delighted and start counting the days.
The fourth week is finally over, and I’m allowed out of my cage with my daughter in a kanga on my back. The tropical air almost takes my breath away, and I inhale it greedily. After a month away from it all I now realize more than ever how wonderful the birdsong is and how good the red bushes smell. I could shout aloud with joy.
Because I’m not allowed out of the section, I wander past the other glass windows. The scenes behind them are terrible. Almost all the children have deformities. Sometimes there are up to four beds in one room. There are misshapen heads and bodies, children with spina bifida, clubfeet, children missing arms or legs. The third window gives me a shock: lying there quite still is the body of a tiny baby with a huge head that looks ready to explode. Only the lips are moving; it’s probably crying.
I can’t take the sight any longer and go back to my room. I’m distraught. I’ve never seen so many deformities before. I realize how lucky I am to have the baby I have.
When the doctor comes to me I ask her why these children are still alive. She tells me that in a missionary hospital there is no such thing as euthanasia. These children have mostly been left outside the door and are simply waiting to die. The thought makes me miserable, and I wonder if I’ll ever have a good night’s sleep again. The doctor suggests that tomorrow I take a walk on the other side of the section, away from the windows, to avoid seeing them. As it happens there’s a lawn and pretty trees there, and we’re allowed to stay outside for half an hour. I walk through the greenery with Napirai, singing, which makes her happy because every now and then she joins in with a noise of her own.
But before long morbid curiosity draws me back to the abandoned children. Now that I’m prepared for the sight, it’s not so shocking. A few of them are aware of someone looking at them. When I’m on my way back to my room I notice the door to the room with four beds is open. The black nurse who’s changing the children calls to me, and hesitantly I go up to the door. She shows me how the children react differently when she speaks to them or laughs. I’m astonished how happily these children can react. I’m relieved and at the same time ashamed that I was questioning these creatures’ right to life. They experience thirst and hunger, but are conscious of both pain and happiness.
From that day on I go to each door in turn and sing the three songs that I remember from school. Within a few days I’m overwhelmed how happy they appear to be when they hear or recognize me. Even the baby with water on the brain stops whimpering when I sing my songs to him. At last I’ve found something that can reinforce my newfound lust for life.
One day I put Napirai in a child seat with wheels and push her backwards and forwards in the sunshine. She laughs happily as the wheels crunch over the path and the little cart bumps along. By now she’s become the darling of the nurses. They all keep coming over to lift up the little light-brown baby. She’s very patient with all of them and seems to enjoy the attention. All of a sudden my husband and his brother James appear, and Lketinga rushes over and lifts Napirai out of the little cart. Then he greets me too. I’m hugely pleased by such a surprise visit.
Napirai, however, is not so sure about her father’s painted face and long red hair and soon begins to cry. Straight away James goes over and starts speaking softly to her. He’s enthralled by our baby too. Lketinga tries singing to her but it’s no good, she wants to come back to me. James takes her off him and immediately she quietens down. I put my arm around Lketinga to console him and try to explain that Napirai will have to get used to him again after five weeks in here. He asks exasperatedly when we’re finally going to come home, and I promise to ask the doctor that evening and tell him to come back again at visiting time.