The hungry months are very much with us again. We’ve welcomed several children over the last few days. We’ve also said goodbye to the last group of children recovering from malnutrition after having had measles.
A few days ago I welcomed a little girl of 4 years who only weighed 8 kg. I won’t go into her medical condition, but suffice to say that she was very frail. Her parents had brought her from near Bokakata, the village I visited with Judith a few weeks ago. To give them their due, they had taken her to the local medical centre there, but had seen no progress. The question remained: what sort of state was she in when they decided to take her for help, and how did she decline so much without them taking action? The answer is usually that they were extremely poor – they didn’t have the means. Perhaps they tried some traditional medicine first. Traditional medicine can have no effect if really all the child needs to do is eat more. She was admitted to our Catholic hospital, next door.
The next day, another little girl arrived, again in a very similar condition, and also from out of town. Mum, dad, grandma, and several other children arrived with her. None of them had a place to stay in Basankusu. She was also admitted to the hospital.
Yesterday, another mother arrived. She brought her little boy, 4 and a half years old and 9 kg in weight. The child had had sickness and diarrhoea but it had passed. Blood iron was fine. We sent her back to my malnutrition centre. Even though she’s also from out of town, like the other two, she’s got a place to stay near the centre with family.
For all three families it’s the first time they’ve been to Basankusu – even though it’s not very far away.
Last night we had heavy rain, with continuous rumbling thunder. We’re coming into the Rainy Season, which drives the small fish from the streams into the main river. Hunger follows. I lay in bed thinking about the two little girls lying in their metal framed beds, each with a worn sponge mattress and their family members huddled around, perhaps sleeping on the bare concrete floor in the pitch dark and with the heavy rain pounding down on the metal roof. They’d both started their treatment; we’d finally been able to find and buy all the medication that had been prescribed. They’d both started on a diet of milk with a little sugar and oil, every four hours, to take down the swelling and to give some energy. Let’s see what the morning brings.
This morning, we got the news that the two children in the hospital had both died in the night. The two families’ villages are in opposite directions. Nevertheless, they’d set out in their grief towards home, collecting up all the things we’d provided for their comfort in the hospital.
Judith and I were both quite down about it at breakfast.
“But they’ve taken everything,” she said.
“I know,” I replied, thinking how hard it would be to have their lives. They’d set off in the dead of night, through the rain and mud, each family to walk 30 or 40 miles home each with their dead child.
“They’ve taken the torches we gave them yesterday, and the cups, spoons and plates we gave them to eat with. They even took the cooking pot that we bought in Kinshasa, which cost $20!”
“What can we do?” I shrugged. “They’ll sell them to get a little money for the burial.”
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| Francis Hannaway at his centre for malnutrition |
A few days ago I welcomed a little girl of 4 years who only weighed 8 kg. I won’t go into her medical condition, but suffice to say that she was very frail. Her parents had brought her from near Bokakata, the village I visited with Judith a few weeks ago. To give them their due, they had taken her to the local medical centre there, but had seen no progress. The question remained: what sort of state was she in when they decided to take her for help, and how did she decline so much without them taking action? The answer is usually that they were extremely poor – they didn’t have the means. Perhaps they tried some traditional medicine first. Traditional medicine can have no effect if really all the child needs to do is eat more. She was admitted to our Catholic hospital, next door.
The next day, another little girl arrived, again in a very similar condition, and also from out of town. Mum, dad, grandma, and several other children arrived with her. None of them had a place to stay in Basankusu. She was also admitted to the hospital.
Yesterday, another mother arrived. She brought her little boy, 4 and a half years old and 9 kg in weight. The child had had sickness and diarrhoea but it had passed. Blood iron was fine. We sent her back to my malnutrition centre. Even though she’s also from out of town, like the other two, she’s got a place to stay near the centre with family.
For all three families it’s the first time they’ve been to Basankusu – even though it’s not very far away.
Last night we had heavy rain, with continuous rumbling thunder. We’re coming into the Rainy Season, which drives the small fish from the streams into the main river. Hunger follows. I lay in bed thinking about the two little girls lying in their metal framed beds, each with a worn sponge mattress and their family members huddled around, perhaps sleeping on the bare concrete floor in the pitch dark and with the heavy rain pounding down on the metal roof. They’d both started their treatment; we’d finally been able to find and buy all the medication that had been prescribed. They’d both started on a diet of milk with a little sugar and oil, every four hours, to take down the swelling and to give some energy. Let’s see what the morning brings.
This morning, we got the news that the two children in the hospital had both died in the night. The two families’ villages are in opposite directions. Nevertheless, they’d set out in their grief towards home, collecting up all the things we’d provided for their comfort in the hospital.
Judith and I were both quite down about it at breakfast.
“But they’ve taken everything,” she said.
“I know,” I replied, thinking how hard it would be to have their lives. They’d set off in the dead of night, through the rain and mud, each family to walk 30 or 40 miles home each with their dead child.
“They’ve taken the torches we gave them yesterday, and the cups, spoons and plates we gave them to eat with. They even took the cooking pot that we bought in Kinshasa, which cost $20!”
“What can we do?” I shrugged. “They’ll sell them to get a little money for the burial.”
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