Abidah's party

7th April 2007

Today Bernadette and I are going to Abidah’s kitchen party in Lusaka with our colleagues Esther, Odesta and Mrs Mwale. Abidah worked in Mpanshya as a pharmacist until a few months ago, when she left to join her fiancé in the Copperbelt (to the disappointment of Chas and Joost, who still go slightly misty at the mention of her name). A kitchen party is a kind of bridal shower, where all the female friends of the prospective bride get together and present her with gifts. I have dressed in accordance with the directions on the invitation (which specifies that the colour scheme is black, white and silver) and I go to meet the others at the hospital entrance, only to find Mrs Mwale resplendent in a blue chitambala. Apparently the colour scheme only applies to the gifts. It is too late to change, so I get in the minibus and set off for Lusaka with the others.

We arrive at the address on the invitation to find that the party is being held in the garden rather than the kitchen, so we pick a shady spot and watch the other guests arriving. Soon the garden is full of women in elaborate wigs, tottering round in jewelled sandals and swigging Fanta out of glass bottles. We wait a couple of hours without anything much happening. Then some women begin drumming, and suddenly there is an outbreak of free-form dancing on the lawn. A lady in a red kaftan jigs past, blowing on a whistle. She is a vision of exuberance, apparently oblivious to everything around her her, but she suddenly notices that I have a camera in my hand. She breaks off her dance to pose for me, and then disappears briefly, returning with her friend for a second photo.

Finally Abidah is led in to the centre of the circle, her face obscured by a sheet draped over her head. Zambian tradition dictates that the bride should not look up at her guests, so she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground when she is unveiled by her elders. I struggle to follow most of what follows, but there seems to be a lot of advice given to Abidah on how to keep her husband happy, accompanied by a generous measure of illustrative hip shaking. Everyone laughs and shouts; I feel like I have stepped into a slightly bawdy cartoon. The party carries on even when it starts to rain, encouraged by the woman with the whistle, who declares defiantly “It’s not showers! It’s blessings!”

And then St Luke’s are called forward to present their gifts. I have been briefed on kitchen party etiquette, and I know that I am expected to dance before handing over my coffee pot. I also know that I’ll never be able to shake it like the Zambian girls, but I’d hate to be accused of not trying. So, under the scrutiny of our fellow guests, I dance for Abidah with my colleagues. I catch her glancing upwards as we strut our stuff, and am grateful to note that she is trying not to laugh.

Stopping TB

Acting














Dancing













Posing


9th March 2007

I am seeing a patient in the hospice office this afternoon when there is a knock at the door. I open it to find Vincent, who is beaming and clutching an enormous tortoise. He holds it up to my face so I can have a better look. He asks “Is Mr Charles here?” I tell him Chas is in Lusaka and he looks slightly crestfallen. “I was hoping he would take some snaps…” I reassure him that on his return, Chas will come over with a camera, and he goes away again, quite happy.

24th March 2007

Stop TB day. I am waving a visitor off when Sister Valeria comes over and tells me that Mr Phiri has included a speech from the medical officer in his programme for the day’s events. I tell her that this is the first I have heard of it, and then trudge over for the morning round.

By ten-thirty, I am wrestling with a wheezy baby in the nurses’ station. Although he is very breathless, the combined force of three adults will not persuade him to accept a spacer mask on his face. And then Mr Phiri appears. He tells me that he sees I am very busy, but I must come along to the celebrations and say a few words. I tell him that I have no intention of repeating my public speaking disaster of Stop TB Day 2006. He doesn’t give up. Maybe if I would just say hi to the crowd, he suggests. The idea of doing a faux-rock star “Hello Mpanshya!” is not without comic appeal, but I stick to my better instincts and turn him down.

I finish work at the hospital shortly after this, and then walk over to where the celebrations are being held. As usual, the VIPs are on a platform at the front, with the spectators sitting on the ground. I try to settle down unobtrusively on a patch of grass at the back, but the women seated next to me start nudging one another and giggling. Mr Sikazwe spots me and comes running over with his camera. I suddenly realise that because of the way I am sitting, my knickers are probably on display and I attempt to move my legs quickly to avert embarrassment. I am midway through this manoeuvre when I hear the click of his shutter. The women beside me are now snorting with laughter. Then Mr Kapembwa comes to tell me that I must sit on the platform, so I get to my feet as modestly as I can and follow him to the front.

Anyway, aside from this momentary humiliation, it is a good day. The sound system screeches incessantly throughout the proceedings, and every now and then, the stage is invaded by a wandering drunk. But the drama and dancing are great, and everyone seems to be having a good time.

30th March 2007

At 6.30 this morning, I am standing at the kitchen sink, trying to tidy up before driving into town for the weekend, when one of the mothers from children’s ward knocks at the door. She tells me that her daughter Victoria died overnight. I start to tell her that I am sorry, but she is not listening to me. She has come because she needs to get home with the body, and she wants me to help her. I agree to take her, and she nods briskly, as if we have just made a deal over transporting of a piece of luggage, and then she leaves again.

The minibus is overloaded with patients as usually, but the mother and grandmother squeeze in, one with the surviving twin sister tied to her back, the other carrying Victoria wrapped in a sheet. I drive them to Chimusanya and drop them off at the market. I try and offer my sympathies again, but they don’t particularly want them. Limp condolences don’t have much currency around here. Bereaved women seem to alternate between two states: silently busying themselves with funeral arrangements or wailing with grief for hours on end. There isn’t much space for words in between.

5th April 2007

I am in the back of the nurses’ station with Maxwell and his mother. Maxwell came to hospital yesterday, he is horribly undernourished and dehydrated. Today he looks like he is dying. Over the last month I have seen countless children in the back of the nurses’ station, and most of them have been in a similar condition. (The locals call this time hunger season.) The routine is generally the same; I will spend hours trying to locate an entry point in their collapsing circulation. I know that the amount of time spent on this effort is inversely proportional to the chances of success, but I keep doing it anyway. The mothers and I are in collusion; we are both aware that the child will die even if I find a vein, but somehow it makes us both feel better if I keep trying. It’s usually too late for the baby (what exactly am I planning to inject him with? A cure for poverty?) so we might as well console ourselves with some purposeful activity.

Anyway. Today, the cannula eventually goes in. I give some antibiotics, quinine and fluids. I ask his mother if he has been baptised. And then I leave them alone to do the last bit together. Doing these things never feels enough. It isn’t, of course, but it’s not nothing either.