I hate being white. Let me rephrase that, I hate that colonialism fucked people up so much that some people value me more than they do others because of the colour of my skin. It makes me sick. My sister Imachulet returned home from school with a fever yesterday. The week Eliza and I were away Agnes had such bad Malaria she stayed in the hospital on a drip for two days. Eliza and I worried that Imachulet may have Malaria (she sleeps without a mosquito net), and wanted to take her to the hospital to get her tested.
The one problem, the lab closed at five and the time hovered around six. Eliza gave Imachulet an Advil while we took our tea and waited for Agnes to return to see if she had connections in the hospital (Bibian said Agnes may know a nurse who could help). Agnes did not know anyone. Eliza, Imachulet, Bibian, and I still decided Eliza and I should take Imachulet to the hospital. They might open the lab up for the Mzungu. It was a shot in the dark and a power privilege play, but hey if it helped Imachulet why not try? Around 6:30 we walked Imachulet to the hospital. Bless her heart, she brushed her hair and put on a smart outfit with perfume to walk to the hospital. Even the small trip to the hospital allowed Imachulet the ability to feel that she was going out. She does not get this opportunity often. I am so happy to have her as a sister. Anyway back on track. When we arrived at the hospital we did not see anyone in the main reception are who could help us. However, we saw Sharon and a group of other teachers and students from Sharon’s school. They teachers were taking the students who were sick to get tested for Malaria.
After a few minuets of waiting Eliza and I almost turned back. Imachulet led us on. We wandered the hospital grounds without the sign of a nurse. She then led us to a back building, hidden behind the maternity ward. It almost looked like the houses that lay behind the hospital instead of part of the hospital itself. This section of the hospital had two wings devided by a small hall with a reception desk. On either side paitents lay on beds in the dim rooms connected to drips, while visitors stood around crowding the small areas the patients were given. The nurses and doctors hovered around the main reception desk. Their idle chatter ceased, however, when the two mzungu walked into the room. “Hello Madams,” a man said from behind the desk.
“Hello,” Eliza said in her slow high pitched speech, “my friend is feeling sick, and we were wondering if we could get a test,” she motioned to her finger, “for malaria.” “I have already called the man, has he not come?” “What? We have not talked to anyone yet, he was called for someone else,” she motioned to the door over her shoulder. “We have not talked to anyone.” “There is no one there?” The man asked. “No. And my friend is very sick.” “Which state are you from?” The man asked pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Colorado.” Eliza replied. “Yes hello,” the man spoke to an unidentifiable man on the other side of the line, “we have two visitors here from Colorado. Can you open the lab up? Uh hu.” He returned the phone to his pocket. “You come.” As we walked I told Eliza I would test for malaria with Imachulet. I had a feeling the man wanted to open the lab for us, and I didn’t mind getting my finger pricked. Eliza worried for me, but meh.
We followed him to the TV alcove in the hospital where many people gathered around the small-discoloured television to watch the France v Nigeria game. The man found the lab technician among the viewers, and after a bit of confusion Eliza, Imachulet, and I followed the two men down the open hallway to the lab. Eliza waited outside, while I went in with Imachulet. Imachulet seemed worried, so I told her to squeeze my hand when the technician pricked her finger so that it would not hurt as much. When we went to wait outside for the results the group of schoolgirls had gathered around the lab door. The man who got the technician for us looked confused as to what was going on. He asked if I was feeling ok. I told him I felt a little sick (I had the flue so it was true), but that I could come back to test in the morning; the girls would be in school so they should test first. “Madam,” he said, “come. I opened the lab for you.” “You don’t have to go.” Eliza said, panic all over her face. I went in anyway. They pricked my finger, took a drop of blood, and sent me outside to wait.
When I exited I saw Sharon kneeling over, blood leaving her nose like water out of a leaky faucet. “I can’t handle blood,” Eliza whispered. “Eliza go check the score of the soccer game for me.” She wandered away. I went back to Sharon and told her to pinch her nose just above the bridge for me. She seemed out of sorts and it took me a couple minuets to be able to get her to understand. I had to pinch her nose in the process for a minute for her to understand what to do. Imachulet stood by and waited for our results to come out. Sharon then went into the room to get tested. A few minuets later the technition handed us our papers just as Eliza wandered back. Both of our testes came back negative for malaria. On the one hand we could not just give Imachulet malaria tablets to feel better, but on the other hand at least it wasn’t malaria.
On the walk back I felt relieved that we got Imachulet tested. I also waged an internal moral battle wondering why my life seemed more important and urgent to the doctors than the young girls or Imachulets. Really almost anyone else’s for that matter. Historically I know the answer, but I wish it were different.
