Basankusu: A meeting with Sister Doctor Vicky

In my last blog entry, I talked about the setting up of a new supplementary feeding centre. I want the centre to be independent of me – for it to stand on its own two feet (if it had feet). The local volunteers who run it, who cook the meals, who give training to the mothers and the nurses who look after the medical side of thing, all live on the bread-line … so, the centre will always need financial support from outside. In an ideal world, neighbours would look after malnourished children who live near them. 

Sister Vicky visiting our nutrition project
a few days after our meeting

Unfortunately, the conditions that create malnutrition are complex. Given the general poverty in the population, neighbours can become resentful of helping people who are – for whatever reason – unable to help themselves. “They are lazy!” “They are taking advantage!” “They are stupid … or disorganised!” or, “Life is difficult enough finding enough to feed my own children,” are some of the responses you might hear. Family is first, clan is often second. Because of these factors, and the fact that Basankusu is a sizeable place, the need for a centre for treating malnutrition remains a necessity.

Some months ago, a young woman, called Maggie, came to see me at, Maison St Joseph, the Mill Hill house in Basankusu. She told me that she was a qualified and experienced malnutrition trainer. She chatted in a relaxed manner and seemed a really lovely person. However, I’m always wary of so-called experts – Congo is full of them, and a lot of the people I’d dealt with had knowledge about food groups which would be about the same level as I’d taught to Year 5 children (9 and 10 year-olds) in England. I decided, at the time, that I had enough experts around me – but would keep her in mind.

This year, Sister Doctor Victorine (Vicky) gave Maggie a job at our Catholic hospital as a nutrition trainer for families with malnourished children. Sister Vicky called me to her office for a chat.

“Maggie ran a supplementary feeding centre in Bokakata for twelve years,” she enthused, “She’d still be there now, but our funding ran out. She really is an asset.”

I didn’t think she was old enough to have worked anywhere for twelve years, but then I found out that she has four children herself and five grand-children!

Sister Vicky, who is a nun from Basankusu’s own congregation – the Sisters of St Theresa – told me that she wanted to use my services.

At Nellie's house

“I like the structure of your project,” she said, “I like the training work you’re planning to do in the village of Djombo – I like it a lot. So, perhaps we can work together. Malnutrition is increasing throughout the diocese and our funds are so limited we can often only give advice. Maggie is available to help you – why don’t you take her to see you your work?”

Sr. Vicky gave a rare smile and raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you can help us at the hospital because we are sometime overwhelmed with cases of infant malnutrition. Powdered milk is very dear in Basankusu – but some of our sisters are going down the river to Mbandaka for meetings. Why don’t you send an order with them to buy your milk in bulk there? Then I can send my severe cases to you.”

I agreed that it was a great idea. “So, your patients will buy the milk from me?”

The eye-brow went up again, and she gave another wry smile, “Ah, Francis … you will give it. It’s the same work that you’re already doing, isn’t it? In return, you will get support from all our staff … and I will come to see your nutrition centre.”

The meeting was over – I was now accepted as a useful chap to have around and our nutrition team had gained status within the diocese.

Mama Maggie visits our nutrition centre

Mama Maggie, tall, elegant, youthful-looking mother of four and grand-mother of five, went with me to our nutrition centre in Basa Deux, 3 or 4 km from our house.

She had recently been appointed to work at our local Catholic hospital, and has twelve years’ experience running a supplementary feeding project in the village of Bokakata, about 25 km downriver from Basankusu.

“Just come along to see what we’re doing,” I said, “and say hello to everyone.”

Mama Maggie holds the project volunteers spellbound

as she gives advice on running the centre

We arrived just as the children were having their first milk of the day. Sitting on the floor, the children sipped at pink plastic cups, or held the still-hot milk on desert-spoons before swallowing it down. Most of the children appeared round faced, alert and healthy enough – but this is part of the condition. The swollen round face and bloated tummy are symptoms of an imbalance in which fluids move out of the tissue where they’re needed and give the classic image of the starving child. Several children showed more acute symptoms, painfully thin arms and an enlarged liver straining to cope with the whole chemistry of the body going haywire. For these severe cases, milk is given eight times a day to redress the imbalance.

Maggie talks to mothers and helpers as the children finish their porridge

Maggie greeted everyone and started to speak. “I’m very pleased to see this fantastic work that you’re doing,” she began, “I can see that the children are being well cared for. There’s a lot of love here.”

To my surprise the volunteers broke into spontaneous applause. My heart raced. “This is great,” I thought, “the volunteers are hungry to hear what Maggie can bring to them. The visit is a success before it’s even started.”

I started to show Maggie around the small house which serves as our centre. We walked into the tiny office, our store-room and then into the garden. The volunteers followed her to the doorway and she started to speak again.

Little Olive - day by day making progress

“We’re going to plant soya-beans in the garden,” one helper said. “No, you are not,” replied Maggie, “you do enough already! When the mothers arrive each morning, don’t sit them down … give them machetes and get them clearing the garden! When they’ve done that … then they can feed their children. After that they can start to plant soya-beans and green vegetables. Each morning when they arrive they can go and fetch water … then they can go around the garden and water their plants … only then, can they go to feed their children.”

Francis Hannaway joining in with the training

She was on a roll, she had them hooked … I watched the helpers’ heads nod gently up and down in agreement as she spoke.

... in full swing

“Every mother that comes along should bring firewood with her, each one, each one, each one … two sticks, two sticks, two sticks …  each mother has come because she’s worried about her child, so bringing firewood can be her contribution. Then you’re not wasting money on firewood and will have more to buy food for the children. After that, they can go and draw water from the well and put it in a pan on the fire to boil so that you’ll be ready to cook. The mother should always do some work first and before you sit them down. Then …” she continued without drawing breath – the helper’s eyes still fixed on her as she became more animated, “before the children are fed, give the mothers some education.”

Giving training to the mothers was something we’d talked about at the first centre … but I never saw it happening. In our new centre, we had already highlighted it as a priority, so perhaps Maggie would give us some advice.

“For example,” she said, “before a mother can bring her child to the centre, she’s got to give him a wash first. Any mother who turns up with a mucky kid – send them home! Don’t you worry about them not coming back … they’ll do anything to come back. …”

One of the helpers asked a question. “Are you telling us that we have to tell these mothers to cut down the grass and weeds in the garden, to bring firewood and fetch water … aren’t they just going to tell us all to get lost?”

“Oh, d’you think they won’t insult you? D’you think they never insulted me in my twelve years’ experience in Bokakata? Of course, they did. They called me all sorts! But, these mothers want to help their children … eventually they’ll accept their role. They’d see me and they’d shout – ‘oh, Mama, are you there? Look, I’ve brought some firewood! ‘– and you’ll find the same … they’ll call you names at first, but after a while they’ll respect you.”