Read Online Somebody's Heart Is Burning by Tanya Shaffer - Free Book Online
Authors: Tanya Shaffer
Tags: nonfiction
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of these Western-style doctors and their unfamiliar medicine.
A nurse sat at the reception desk. She discussed Yao’s condition with Minessi in Fanti for a while, then wrote “cough” on the sheet of paper in front of her.
“His breathing, too, listen to it,” I chimed in. Minessi glanced at me uneasily. The nurse added a few notes to her paper, then told me I should go into the doctor’s office with Minessi and Yao to explain the situation to the doctor. I added that Yao already had the cough when I left a month ago. The nurse looked at Minessi in surprise.
“Bohsom?”
she said sharply, which meant month. Minessi nodded slightly, looking caught out.
The cost of the visit was 200 cedis: astoundingly low by my standards, but what that sum meant to Minessi, I couldn’t say. Much of the village business was conducted by barter, and cash was extremely scarce.
The doctor was a young Ghanaian man in a white button-down shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, with a silver cross around his neck. Probably a recent university graduate doing his mandatory public service. He sat behind a broad desk, wearing a stethoscope, and spoke curtly to Minessi. She replied respectfully, her eyes dropped.
“Bohsom eko,”
she murmured softly. One month.
The doctor brought his hand down on the desk in an impatient gesture, barking a response. I was dismayed to see the proud Minessi cowering now, her elegant posture literally shrinking under this man’s rebuke. She unwrapped Yao and set him, naked, on the desk.
“She feeds the baby mashed
kenke.
No milk,” the doctor told me in English. “Do you know what is kenke?”
I nodded stiffly. Minessi avoided my eyes. I was stunned that he spoke like that in front of her. Did he think she didn’t understand? If she was feeding Yao
kenke
, it must’ve been all she could afford. But wasn’t she also breast-feeding? I realized I didn’t know; I couldn’t remember ever having seen her feed him. For a heart-stopping moment I wondered whether she was guilty of negligence. My mind flitted to her other children, her daughters: why weren’t they with her? I quickly pushed away the disloyal thought. She was wonderful with Yao, so gentle and patient. If she’d stopped breast-feeding, there had to be a reason. And cow’s milk, which could only be found in tins, was certainly out of her range.
The doctor ordered Minessi to remove a small pouch that hung on a frayed red ribbon around Yao’s neck.
“I too have my superstition.” He winked at me. “I won’t touch the baby while this is on.”
Placing the stethoscope against Yao’s tiny chest, the doctor looked up and shook his head at me again.
“They feed the babies mashed
kenke
and then wonder why they grow pale and have no energy,” his voice rang with disgust. “I tell them and tell them but they won’t listen.”
He smiled at me ingratiatingly. In my periphery I saw Minessi adjusting her orange cloth, looking sideways at the bare walls of the room. When the doctor turned his attention back to Yao, I tried to catch her eye.
After the examination, the doctor again spoke sharply to Minessi in Fanti. She nodded, expressionless, head down.
He turned to me. “The baby has pneumonia. It is lucky that he is alive. He will have to sleep two or three days here in hospital,” he continued in a comradely tone. “One hundred cedis a day to stay here. Not so much, eh? But she is afraid to bring him. Instead she will visit the witch doctor. Then she will sit in her house until the baby dies. They can never find money for the hospital, but they will always find money for the funeral.”
Minessi was silent as we walked down the sterile hallway.
“That doctor was a jerk, wasn’t he?” I said finally, but she just stared straight ahead.
In the pediatric section, which seemed to consist of a room with eight cots—six empty and two occupied—they gave me a prescription to fill. We walked into town to find a pharmacy.
Twenty-five hundred
A nurse sat at the reception desk. She discussed Yao’s condition with Minessi in Fanti for a while, then wrote “cough” on the sheet of paper in front of her.
“His breathing, too, listen to it,” I chimed in. Minessi glanced at me uneasily. The nurse added a few notes to her paper, then told me I should go into the doctor’s office with Minessi and Yao to explain the situation to the doctor. I added that Yao already had the cough when I left a month ago. The nurse looked at Minessi in surprise.
“Bohsom?”
she said sharply, which meant month. Minessi nodded slightly, looking caught out.
The cost of the visit was 200 cedis: astoundingly low by my standards, but what that sum meant to Minessi, I couldn’t say. Much of the village business was conducted by barter, and cash was extremely scarce.
The doctor was a young Ghanaian man in a white button-down shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, with a silver cross around his neck. Probably a recent university graduate doing his mandatory public service. He sat behind a broad desk, wearing a stethoscope, and spoke curtly to Minessi. She replied respectfully, her eyes dropped.
“Bohsom eko,”
she murmured softly. One month.
The doctor brought his hand down on the desk in an impatient gesture, barking a response. I was dismayed to see the proud Minessi cowering now, her elegant posture literally shrinking under this man’s rebuke. She unwrapped Yao and set him, naked, on the desk.
“She feeds the baby mashed
kenke.
No milk,” the doctor told me in English. “Do you know what is kenke?”
I nodded stiffly. Minessi avoided my eyes. I was stunned that he spoke like that in front of her. Did he think she didn’t understand? If she was feeding Yao
kenke
, it must’ve been all she could afford. But wasn’t she also breast-feeding? I realized I didn’t know; I couldn’t remember ever having seen her feed him. For a heart-stopping moment I wondered whether she was guilty of negligence. My mind flitted to her other children, her daughters: why weren’t they with her? I quickly pushed away the disloyal thought. She was wonderful with Yao, so gentle and patient. If she’d stopped breast-feeding, there had to be a reason. And cow’s milk, which could only be found in tins, was certainly out of her range.
The doctor ordered Minessi to remove a small pouch that hung on a frayed red ribbon around Yao’s neck.
“I too have my superstition.” He winked at me. “I won’t touch the baby while this is on.”
Placing the stethoscope against Yao’s tiny chest, the doctor looked up and shook his head at me again.
“They feed the babies mashed
kenke
and then wonder why they grow pale and have no energy,” his voice rang with disgust. “I tell them and tell them but they won’t listen.”
He smiled at me ingratiatingly. In my periphery I saw Minessi adjusting her orange cloth, looking sideways at the bare walls of the room. When the doctor turned his attention back to Yao, I tried to catch her eye.
After the examination, the doctor again spoke sharply to Minessi in Fanti. She nodded, expressionless, head down.
He turned to me. “The baby has pneumonia. It is lucky that he is alive. He will have to sleep two or three days here in hospital,” he continued in a comradely tone. “One hundred cedis a day to stay here. Not so much, eh? But she is afraid to bring him. Instead she will visit the witch doctor. Then she will sit in her house until the baby dies. They can never find money for the hospital, but they will always find money for the funeral.”
Minessi was silent as we walked down the sterile hallway.
“That doctor was a jerk, wasn’t he?” I said finally, but she just stared straight ahead.
In the pediatric section, which seemed to consist of a room with eight cots—six empty and two occupied—they gave me a prescription to fill. We walked into town to find a pharmacy.
Twenty-five hundred
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