Behold, the epitome of unprofessionalism!

 

Although I had got the nod from the Receptionist to enter the doctor’s room, my quiet entry was met with a startled gaze from the doctor and nurse who were in a sort of unfazed discussion.  The atmosphere made it seem like a deal was just about to be broken and there I had just opened the door innocently.  The doctor shook as he asked me to take a seat.  The nurse leaned on the doctor’s paper-filled table. 

 

The doctor took a deep breath in the course of determining whether to give his full attention to me (the patient) or finish pending business with the fairly aged ‘professional’-looking nurse.  I was keen to figure out what exactly was going on or better still grab an idea of the storyline seconds before I hadmade my entry into the room. 

 

On the doctor’s table were three blood stained HIV test strips – and no doubt the discussion had been about those strips.  The n the nurse popped the final question in the bid to wind up with the doctor so she could go back to the treatment room or pace around the busy reception area.  “Kati salawo mangu kubanga omuwala aludewo nyo!” The nurse compellingly told the doctor.  The timid-looking medic (in his 50s) then stammerred, “if the two are showing positive and the third one is negative, kati awo nange simanyi; naye mugambe ayina U.T.I, just”.  Piecing the story together, I later figured out that three HIV tests had been run on this young lady using the home test strips and two of the strips indicated a positive result while one showed that she was negative.  The decision on which result to give her seemed to have been painfully reduced to a negotiation process between the nurse and the doctor – a picky picky ponky affair! And worse of all was, both the nurse and the doctor seemed to conspire not to give this innocent-looking lady her HIV results but instead lie to her that she only had a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI).

 

Finally, the nurse was out the doctor’s room and all the undivided attention was with me.  I informed him I only needed to check my Blood Pressure (BP) levels and he quickly dug out his BP monitor device from a tattered dusty box right on the side of his table.  Some seconds later, he broodingly announces, “your BP is so so high – 135 over 95, that is too high for a young man like you!”  So, naturally I ask, what do you recommend (this is about 10:30pm), he advises, “Before you go to sleep, make sure you do some physical exercises”.  Any type of exercise you would recommend sir, I ask. He grins and nods, “yes of course, right now you can for instance go and do some digging, slashing, basically try out the hard, hard exercises”.  In disbelief I am forced to again ask, dig, slash at this time (its coming to 11pm)?  He puts on this withering look and there he goes, “yes – dig and slash! – The problem is that you city ‘boys’ don’t even go to gardens any more”. 

 

Wait a minute, the last time I was in Bunyoro, a story was making rounds about how one of the village folks would wake up to till her garden at 1:00am; many around the village thought she was a ‘night dancer’, but now I suspect she could have been acting on such a doctor’s advice!

 

Fast forward, after having a long but useless conversation with this ‘doctor’, I walked out to wait for my medical note showing my BP results.  While at the reception, the nurse continued to issue results to some of the waiting patients.  As if it were communal results; she screeched out for everyone around the reception area to hear as she sifted through the patients results’ file,  “You, the one of the backache, come; you, the one of the HCG tests, jangu!;  gwe, owa HIV, jangu okime results zo!; It was my turn and this ‘good old’ nurse goes, “gwe owa Puleesa, has the doctor given you any note? I replied, not any that he handed to me; she then shouted, “ Okay, you go”!

 

With chills in my spine I made my way out of this purported Kampala based ‘hospital’.  And all there was ringing in my head was, 'What shall I call this?'  Carelessness, clumsiness, unprofessionalism or what?  And for them, it is a hospital and all these abnormalities are normal and okay and that their life!

 

What a shame!

A Tale Of Mistaken Identity

As I strolled through a local village market, a lady yelled out, Iwe mwana wa Kaheru (literally meaning, you, son of Kaheru!); without hesitation I walked to her vegetable-filled stall.  Very excited to see me, she introduced herself as a long -time friend of my mother;

“Your mother buys vegetables from my stall,” she emphatically said, pitching her voice to ensure that my walk through the stalls ends just right at her stall. She then went on to ask me about one of my little brothers that used to read the news at one local FM station called, Crispy Kaheru.

Despite my muttering that it was me she was talking to, she went on to give me a full account of how that ‘Crispy’ used to be her very good friend, “Every time he was around for holidays he would come by my stall and buy sweet bananas,” – she recalled.  Our long conversation ended in half-bliss after I bought the same good sweet bananas that I had last tasted 10 years ago.

On Easter Sunday, I was brusquely woken up at 7:00am to prepare for the 8:30am English service at St. Matthews Cathedral in Masindi.  The cathedral is located on the famous Kabalega hill, which is just about ten minutes by foot from our home. 

It being an Easter service, my wife and I planned to get to church slightly before 8:30am so that we could get good seats in the front rows of the Cathedral.  Unlike about ten years ago where everyone would definitely find space to sit inside the church, times have now changed, and there is a tent right outside the church for any persons who will miss seats inside the Cathedral.  Even with that hundred-seater-tent, many of the Christians will still fight to catch space on the veranda.

After arriving at 8:15am, the earlier ‘revival’ service didn’t end until about 9:00am.  So I used the 45 minutes to greet old friends and neighbours who I hadn’t seen in many years.  One of those was a very amiable Reverend who was really excited to see me and couldn’t resist giving me that long priestly twirl hug.

I began to introduce my wife to him but before I could finish the introductions, he interjected telling me how she had changed since he had last seen her over ten years ago – at this point I was quite certain that my good old reverend friend hadn’t grasped that the lady next to me was my wife (and not my sister).  He hadn’t met my wife before, so there is no way they could have known each other ten or so years ago. In line with the mood of the tête-à-tête, the reverend asked me if I had children since time was ‘running out’.

In a quick twist of things the reverend used the few minutes before we entered church to lecture me about marriage.  In the presence of my wife he went on to try to talk me into getting married ‘very soon’. 

As expected, my wife’s face darkened quite quickly and before long she was pinching me and whispering aggressive suggestions that I introduce her in order to put an end to her emotional torture.

Eventually, I interjected with the necessary introductions, only for him to declare:

“Eeeeeh! Onu nuwe owa Stephen?!” totally refusing to acknowledge that it was I who was married, rather than my brother whose lecture I was destined to suffer.

Eventually, I was released and made my way into church, where we enjoyed another glorious service.

At the end of the service, the Vicar called upon all visitors  (‘aba-Kampala’) to stand up for recognition. Being at home, I looked out for the people who were visiting us in order to also welcome them, only to notice that some in the congregation were pointing fingers at me to stand up!

I hardened in my seat and maintained my resolve – I was AT HOME!

And I will always be there – more often than before so that these cases of mistaken identity come to a complete end.