"I'm a clever boy!"
Jacquie and Angela take me on a tour of the district hospital, which looks like an army barracks. It's a small compound across the busy road from Kisumu's central park. Since nurses recently went on strike in Kenya, many people took their relatives out of the hospital, returning to their village homes. Slowly, the beds are beginning to fill up again but Jacquie is amazed by how few patients there are, especially since most beds only hold one person, instead of the usual two or three. Every building is a ward (women's, men's, gynecological, pediatrics, surgery, psychiatric, etc.) and each ward has two wings, which are simply large rooms with about 20 beds lining the walls. One wing of each ward holds infectious patients.
When we try to visit the psychiatric ward, we're told we'll need permission from the main office before entering. Instead of going in, which wasn't something we were fired up to do anyway, we ask the male nurse questions about the patients. Turns out, most of the patients are suffering from schizophrenia or drug-induced psychoses. The local marijuana (bang) must be potent because it's the main cause of drug-induced psychoses. And while the patients (mostly-male) do recover, the hospital has no rehabilitation program for drug addiction.
Jacquie and Angela show me the theatre, which is what the hospital calls its surgical ward. The hospital has one operating room and surgeries are performed Tuesday and Thursday mornings only. This morning, staff is cleaning the ante-room, the surgical room and the post-surgical room. They have buckets of soapy water to mop the cement floors as they stand in gum boots. The windows are left open, even during surgeries.
Jackquie and Angela have worked at this hospital, in different wards, over the last few weeks. They mention seeing staff neglect criminal patients (patients injured by citizens dispensing their own brand of justice) and patients who speak only Luo (children learn Kiswahili and English in school, so if someone only speaks Luo it means they're uneducated). The staff also neglect patients who do not have family members to care for them. One older man, who suffered a stroke, was in the hospital for two weeks without a bath. But then Angela showed up and suggested they bathe him and wash his bed linens. No one wanted to do it. It took her 30 minutes to convince them it wasn't THAT much trouble to carry water to the man's bed and bathe and dress him.
Two male prisoners in their vertically stripped suits are handcuffed to one bed at the end of the men's ward. As we walk past the prisoners, a boy of about 13 is making noise and rising up after being replaced on his bed by two male orderlies. The boy is obviously mentally challenged and has difficulty extending his right arm.
After rising from the bed, the boy walks to me (he's about my height) and says, “Give me 100 shillings.” I laugh and say, “Pole sana,” (very sorry). Then he says with an ever-so-slight slur, “I'm a clever boy.” He stands erect, looking me in the eyes. “Yes, you are,” I agree with gusto. “See my clothes?” he asks. “Yes,” I say, “You're in a school uniform and you are a clever boy.”
“Give me a 1000 shillings,” he then says. Again, I laugh. “You've gone from 100 to 1000 shillings! You ARE smart.” The orderlies come and direct the boy away, telling him we'll visit him another day. But I like this boy. Very much. I like looking into his open face, his bright eyes, and hearing him say he's a clever boy. I want to protect this boy who will not sit still and continues to rise from his bed and rise from his bed. Unstoppable, indefatigable, this big boy with the straight back and loads of dignity. You can tell by his clothes, he's a clever boy!
When we try to visit the psychiatric ward, we're told we'll need permission from the main office before entering. Instead of going in, which wasn't something we were fired up to do anyway, we ask the male nurse questions about the patients. Turns out, most of the patients are suffering from schizophrenia or drug-induced psychoses. The local marijuana (bang) must be potent because it's the main cause of drug-induced psychoses. And while the patients (mostly-male) do recover, the hospital has no rehabilitation program for drug addiction.
Jacquie and Angela show me the theatre, which is what the hospital calls its surgical ward. The hospital has one operating room and surgeries are performed Tuesday and Thursday mornings only. This morning, staff is cleaning the ante-room, the surgical room and the post-surgical room. They have buckets of soapy water to mop the cement floors as they stand in gum boots. The windows are left open, even during surgeries.
Jackquie and Angela have worked at this hospital, in different wards, over the last few weeks. They mention seeing staff neglect criminal patients (patients injured by citizens dispensing their own brand of justice) and patients who speak only Luo (children learn Kiswahili and English in school, so if someone only speaks Luo it means they're uneducated). The staff also neglect patients who do not have family members to care for them. One older man, who suffered a stroke, was in the hospital for two weeks without a bath. But then Angela showed up and suggested they bathe him and wash his bed linens. No one wanted to do it. It took her 30 minutes to convince them it wasn't THAT much trouble to carry water to the man's bed and bathe and dress him.
Two male prisoners in their vertically stripped suits are handcuffed to one bed at the end of the men's ward. As we walk past the prisoners, a boy of about 13 is making noise and rising up after being replaced on his bed by two male orderlies. The boy is obviously mentally challenged and has difficulty extending his right arm.
After rising from the bed, the boy walks to me (he's about my height) and says, “Give me 100 shillings.” I laugh and say, “Pole sana,” (very sorry). Then he says with an ever-so-slight slur, “I'm a clever boy.” He stands erect, looking me in the eyes. “Yes, you are,” I agree with gusto. “See my clothes?” he asks. “Yes,” I say, “You're in a school uniform and you are a clever boy.”
“Give me a 1000 shillings,” he then says. Again, I laugh. “You've gone from 100 to 1000 shillings! You ARE smart.” The orderlies come and direct the boy away, telling him we'll visit him another day. But I like this boy. Very much. I like looking into his open face, his bright eyes, and hearing him say he's a clever boy. I want to protect this boy who will not sit still and continues to rise from his bed and rise from his bed. Unstoppable, indefatigable, this big boy with the straight back and loads of dignity. You can tell by his clothes, he's a clever boy!
posted by Cindi at 10:25 AM
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