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| The Waiting Shed at Uganda Cancer Institute |
The patients and their carers who spend the night in the shed, have gathered up their beddings-mattresses, sheets, mosquito nets, bags - are arranged in neat piles against the walls. Some of these patients have spent weeks, months sleeping in the shed. They come for treatment as outpatients but cannot afford the money to return home because their next appointment is in a month’s time. And so they stay and wait, and hope that they will get better.
The old man is from Lira district. He came on the night bus accompanied by his two sons, twenty-somethings. He wears a purple woolly hat on his head, and an oversized grey coat. On his feet are worn leather sandals that have seen better days. He is hunched over, head in his hands. His look is one of hopelessness and despair. His children sit by his side, equally despondent. They stare into space, not saying anything. They are lost in thought. Will their Dad get better? Will they go back empty-handed and hopeless like the last time they were here, three months ago?
The wait is long. When finally the register office administrator arrives, she takes another hour before she starts distributing chits that the patients will use to access their files. For her, breakfast is a must, and she enjoys it leisurely as she gossips with a colleague.
The rain has lessened to a drizzle now. Some patients are sipping on cups of steaming tea and eating cassava, bread, maize, mandazi- the vendors are many. The old man and his sons sit quietly. The only money they have is the fare back home.
When finally their file is called, they receive it and move on to the next stage. The register office administrator addresses the crowd in Luganda. Why do some people assume that everyone understands, and speaks Luganda? They have no idea where to go, and when they approach her to ask her, she barks at them and tells them to find out themselves. At this point, we notice something else. The old man is blind.
We wait for a few minutes until our file is called, and then walk to the next building, the one where we will see the doctors and tell and show them all the aches and pains we have been having in the last month. The clock in that waiting room shows it is 11:50am. That means that we have been braving the cold and wet for nearly five hours.
The room is filled with human beings from all walks of life. Women, men, children. Some share the five benches, others who can’t find space find some sort of comfort on the floor, others hover near the nurse’s table making inquiries and being turned away. In between that, the nurse is calling on the patients to approach her table as she calls their files, to have their pressure readings taken.
There will be three doctors today, but they have not yet arrived. The nurse does not offer an explanation but we already know why the doctors are late. The morning rounds were done late because of the rain. The infusion room is also locked. They have not yet started for the day. There is a trail of mud in the corridor that comes into this waiting room.
At about 12:30pm, two doctors walk in casually, chatting away. They do not look round the room at the patients who perk up when they see them. Their ray of hope. One enters the first room, the other walks up to the next room and turns the handle. The door is locked. He goes to the nurse and tells her something. She abandons the patient whose pressure readings she has been taking, and rushes off to find the key. The doctor stands at the nurse’s counter, whips out his phone and starts reading. Most probably social media, because he smiles some and types away vigorously.
The nurse is back in five minutes, huffing and puffing. With the key which she fishes out of the pocket of her white uniform. She looks like she feels like she is a savior of sorts. Then she starts calling the names for the files. “Naguya Brenda!” She pronounces it ‘Bulenda’. “Senyondo Geoffrey!” The name comes out sounding like ‘Jjoofule’. This is murder of the highest order.
Somehow, we end up sitting near the old man. He is dozing. One of his sons stands by him, his hands folded over his chest. The other leans against a wall, looking up at the ceiling. We get talking. The son tells us that his father fell sick last year and they only discovered it was cancer somewhere in the nasal cavity, four months after he had been treated at various clinics but without success. The last doctor referred them to the Cancer Institute. They have been here thrice. The last time they came, they were told that there was no medicine but that they should seek treatment in Nairobi. That would cost 10 million shillings.
The young man says they cannot afford the money. It is too much. They have spent all they have on treating their father and he is not getting any better. He tells us that they had arrived in Kampala at 2am, and with nowhere to go, they hung around the bus station waiting for the morning. When it was light, at about 5:30am, they jumped on to a motorcycle, all three of them, and came to Mulago. That he had lost his only source of money when UCC ordered telecom companies to stop vendors selling sim cards.
The women selling food are hovering in the doorways, asking people if they will have lunch. The food is packed in buckets which they leave in the corridor as people make their orders. “Tulina a’matooke, omuceere, lumonde, muwogo n’akawunga. Enva tulina ebijaanjalo, ebinyeebwa, n'enyama.” Ebijanjalo, n’ebinyeebwa bya nkumi ssatu, enyama ya taano.” (We have steamed bananas, rice, sweet potatoes, cassava and posho. Anything with beans and groundnuts stew is 3,000 shillings, with meat stew is 5,000 shillings.)
Some people raise their hands and the women approach and take orders. Others look away, some just rest their chins on their hands. The old man’s children are among those who look away. We also look away. Five minutes. Ten minutes. The women return with the first orders. The food is covered with another plate which they take away when the customer uncovers the food.
Then we make a bold attempt. “Would you like some food?” To the young man standing next to his father.
“Who? Me?”
We nod our heads. “Yes.”
“No, its okay.” He shakes his head.
“Hey, its okay, it's on us. Please.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you very much.”
We call one of the ladies and she scribbles down their order. This brother signals to his younger brother and he also makes his.
In ten minutes they are having lunch.
It is now 2:25pm and the line has hardly moved. A third doctor has arrived to help with the workload. Each patient spends roughly seven minutes in the doctor’s room. Many emerge with the look of hopelessness and dejection on their faces. Most probably the report on their health is not good, that the blood tests show the disease is spreading, or that the medicine they need is unavailable.
4:30pm. The old man is next in line to see the doctor. When his turn comes, he stands up and shuffles into the room, aided by his sons. Their visit lasts about 15 minutes. Rather long. As they leave, we ask them what the doctor said.
“He said the same thing. That there’s nothing much he can do, we have to look for the money to take our Dad to Nairobi. But he has prescribed something for the pain. We need to get it from the pharmacy here. Where is the pharmacy?”
And when finally they are shown to the Pharmacy, the dispenser shrugs his shoulders, raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as he shows them the shelves behind him.
They are empty.
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