Kenya: I'll Never Get Used to Death

[Guest guest]

Kenya: I'll Never Get Used to Death

Asunta Wagura

12 October 2011

opinion

A few weeks ago, I was in the state of Western Bahr El Ghazal, which is just two

hours away, by air, from Juba.

I was following up on a group of community health workers I had trained. I

wanted to find out if the strategies we had laid had worked.

Previously, I had given them some tough love and made it clear that if they

wanted to be part of our organisation, they each must identify at least 15

bedridden clients who are living with HIV.

They vowed that this was impossible, citing high levels of stigma and low

awareness of HIV, but I remained firm because I believe in service delivery,

regardless of the obstacles.

Some of the excuses I hate are " it's impossible " and " I can't " .

When they realised that I was not bluffing, they did a perfect job. Each

identified at least 15 clients. Some even had more.

They even went a step further and formed links with the state hospital that

provides antiretroviral therapy.

On this visit, I decided to go the hospital and see where clients were being

referred to, what kind of assistance they were getting, and what more we needed

to do to improve the partnership.

On reaching the hospital, which is in Wau, I saw dilapidated red-earthen

buildings that escaped the war and which looked like they would crumble any

minute.

Outside the buildings were groups of people huddled around small fires.

" Who are those people who have lit fires in the compound? " I asked the field

officer who accompanied me. " How come they are allowed to light fires in the

hospital's compound? "

The officer was surprised at my questions. " Those are patients preparing their

meals, " she replied, adding that the hospital does not have the luxury of a

kitchen and that patients have to prepare their own food. I was shocked.

I was even more shocked when I learnt that relatives have to travel to the

hospital very early, or stay overnight so that they can buy their patients water

from a tanker that passes by daily. It is either that or you die of thirst.

The hospital's only toilets are pit latrines with an over-powering stench.

There were also no bathrooms to speak of. It is almost a normal thing in

Southern Sudan that if you are out in the open countryside, you can go on and

take your bath under the cover of darkness.

And this is not only for the sick; it is also the done thing for the general

populace. No one will bother to look at you because bathing out in the open is

common around here.

With us was a woman who was in stage four of Aids. We tried to see if she could

be admitted, if not in the " hospital " , then in the compound so that she could

wait in the queue for the ART doctor.

I personally intervened. I am known there as Mama wa mshikila.

I understand mshikila is any kind of trouble and I am labelled this way because

of my focus on Aids. The ART doctor had heard about me in Juba.

This woman's sole caregiver was her seven-year-old daughter, who was already

overwhelmed by the responsibility.

If the doctor listened to our case, we would, hopefully, pre-empt this woman's

impending demise and remove the burden of care from her child.

After a lengthy consultation, she was admitted. Following the procedures, we had

to go and purchase a reef mat to serve as her bed, a few utensils for her

makeshift kitchen, and supplies, even though she had no energy to cook.

We agreed that the community workers would go to the hospital on alternate

shifts to cook for her. I must say that it was quite a relief that she was

finally admitted.

However, our relief was short-lived because the following day, as I waited for

my plane back to Juba, which was delayed because of lack of fuel, I was informed

that she had passed away.

My heart broke, especially for her young daughter, who was used to having her

mother around.

My heart also went out to the community workers, faced with the unenviable task

of delivering the terrible news that her mother was no more. It is not an easy

job, this one.

This is the diary of Asunta Wagura, a mother-of-three who tested HIV-positive 24

years ago. She is the executive director of the Kenya Network of Women with Aids

(KENWA).

Source: http://www.nation.co.ke/

[Guest guest]

Kenya: I'll Never Get Used to Death

Asunta Wagura

12 October 2011

opinion

A few weeks ago, I was in the state of Western Bahr El Ghazal, which is just two

hours away, by air, from Juba.

I was following up on a group of community health workers I had trained. I

wanted to find out if the strategies we had laid had worked.

Previously, I had given them some tough love and made it clear that if they

wanted to be part of our organisation, they each must identify at least 15

bedridden clients who are living with HIV.

They vowed that this was impossible, citing high levels of stigma and low

awareness of HIV, but I remained firm because I believe in service delivery,

regardless of the obstacles.

Some of the excuses I hate are " it's impossible " and " I can't " .

When they realised that I was not bluffing, they did a perfect job. Each

identified at least 15 clients. Some even had more.

They even went a step further and formed links with the state hospital that

provides antiretroviral therapy.

On this visit, I decided to go the hospital and see where clients were being

referred to, what kind of assistance they were getting, and what more we needed

to do to improve the partnership.

On reaching the hospital, which is in Wau, I saw dilapidated red-earthen

buildings that escaped the war and which looked like they would crumble any

minute.

Outside the buildings were groups of people huddled around small fires.

" Who are those people who have lit fires in the compound? " I asked the field

officer who accompanied me. " How come they are allowed to light fires in the

hospital's compound? "

The officer was surprised at my questions. " Those are patients preparing their

meals, " she replied, adding that the hospital does not have the luxury of a

kitchen and that patients have to prepare their own food. I was shocked.

I was even more shocked when I learnt that relatives have to travel to the

hospital very early, or stay overnight so that they can buy their patients water

from a tanker that passes by daily. It is either that or you die of thirst.

The hospital's only toilets are pit latrines with an over-powering stench.

There were also no bathrooms to speak of. It is almost a normal thing in

Southern Sudan that if you are out in the open countryside, you can go on and

take your bath under the cover of darkness.

And this is not only for the sick; it is also the done thing for the general

populace. No one will bother to look at you because bathing out in the open is

common around here.

With us was a woman who was in stage four of Aids. We tried to see if she could

be admitted, if not in the " hospital " , then in the compound so that she could

wait in the queue for the ART doctor.

I personally intervened. I am known there as Mama wa mshikila.

I understand mshikila is any kind of trouble and I am labelled this way because

of my focus on Aids. The ART doctor had heard about me in Juba.

This woman's sole caregiver was her seven-year-old daughter, who was already

overwhelmed by the responsibility.

If the doctor listened to our case, we would, hopefully, pre-empt this woman's

impending demise and remove the burden of care from her child.

After a lengthy consultation, she was admitted. Following the procedures, we had

to go and purchase a reef mat to serve as her bed, a few utensils for her

makeshift kitchen, and supplies, even though she had no energy to cook.

We agreed that the community workers would go to the hospital on alternate

shifts to cook for her. I must say that it was quite a relief that she was

finally admitted.

However, our relief was short-lived because the following day, as I waited for

my plane back to Juba, which was delayed because of lack of fuel, I was informed

that she had passed away.

My heart broke, especially for her young daughter, who was used to having her

mother around.

My heart also went out to the community workers, faced with the unenviable task

of delivering the terrible news that her mother was no more. It is not an easy

job, this one.

This is the diary of Asunta Wagura, a mother-of-three who tested HIV-positive 24

years ago. She is the executive director of the Kenya Network of Women with Aids

(KENWA).

Source: http://www.nation.co.ke/