Almamy and Mariama
The sister of my wife (my wife is my host brother's wife) recently visited with her two small children.
Three days after her arrival to our compound, our guest informed her sister (my wife), that her younger child, Mariama, who is 11 months, had diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and a fever for 4 days. To my knowledge, she did nothing during this time. I looked at her makeshift UNICEF health card (a photo-copied piece of paper since the supply of the UNICEF blue cards has 'run out') and just by her weight of 6.7kg, she's on the verge of being classified as underweight and malnourished. In fact, such is the case for children here in The Gambia, and of course, all throughout Africa.
However, I don't want to mislead you, I'm not living amongst a sea of emaciated children, with sunken eyes and stretched skin across a skeleton. There is food here (although, we are told that due to the global food crisis, this time next year, many Gambians and Africans could be starving---more on that in a later post).
Food is available and plenty is here, but it is not prepared properly (to preserve nutrients) or the diet itself is not varied enough to provide adequate vitamins and protein. Far too many children die because they aren't making healthy weight gain, become sick---in most cases, either with diarrhea or malaria, and die, or they are born with an untreated illness that will ultimately end their lives early.
This time last year, I took a 2 year-old to the hospital with his concerned mother. The child, Almamy, was rapidly losing weight. His mother did what she could (from my humble observation and my counterparts'). She went to receive the food supplement bundle distributed by the Department of Health here and UNICEF, but the supply hadn't yet been delivered and was unavailable. When we went to the major hospital, the hospital said he was severely malnourished (which was obvious to just about anyone) and he tested positive for malaria. They prescribed medication, but didn't have the multi-vitamins in stock at the hospital's pharmacy. The pharmacy in town was closed, and we proceeded to the 'black market' of medicine, where former health workers buy medicine in the Kombos and resell them at an inflated cost to those who will pay anything because they desperately need it.
A few days after taking Almamy to the hospital, I had to travel to Kombo. Almamy was released from the hospital while I was away. But during my stay, Almamy died. His condition was already too far gone and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe taking him to the hospital gave him a few more days of life, or maybe it made no difference whatsoever. Sadly, I knew before I even took him that he wasn't going to make it.
So now, will the story of Almamy become the story of Mariama? Deep down, I hope not, but now I realize, one never knows. An innocent child born into this world (compounded with the struggles of Africa) was born merely to suffer---never to enjoy the feat of discovering how to go from a crawl to a walk, experiencing the sounds and shrills that eventually result in a muttering of 'Baba' (Daddy), or mimicking her mother as she carries out her daily tasks of fetching water, washing clothes, and cooking meals. For some reason, I feel like Mariama may become this year's Almamy.
As Mariama's mother, Jainaba, left my compound, my wife told me that they were going to go to the hospital the next day since the child was not better, even though we gave her medicine prescribed by my counterpart. As Jainaba, Mariama, and Mariama's brother left, I felt Mariama's forehead: it was hot---hotter than the day we took her to my counterpart's. Mariama can't talk as she's too young, but her whimpers and spurts of moaning (never really crying) translated clearly---HELP ME.
Three days after her arrival to our compound, our guest informed her sister (my wife), that her younger child, Mariama, who is 11 months, had diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and a fever for 4 days. To my knowledge, she did nothing during this time. I looked at her makeshift UNICEF health card (a photo-copied piece of paper since the supply of the UNICEF blue cards has 'run out') and just by her weight of 6.7kg, she's on the verge of being classified as underweight and malnourished. In fact, such is the case for children here in The Gambia, and of course, all throughout Africa.
However, I don't want to mislead you, I'm not living amongst a sea of emaciated children, with sunken eyes and stretched skin across a skeleton. There is food here (although, we are told that due to the global food crisis, this time next year, many Gambians and Africans could be starving---more on that in a later post).
Food is available and plenty is here, but it is not prepared properly (to preserve nutrients) or the diet itself is not varied enough to provide adequate vitamins and protein. Far too many children die because they aren't making healthy weight gain, become sick---in most cases, either with diarrhea or malaria, and die, or they are born with an untreated illness that will ultimately end their lives early.
This time last year, I took a 2 year-old to the hospital with his concerned mother. The child, Almamy, was rapidly losing weight. His mother did what she could (from my humble observation and my counterparts'). She went to receive the food supplement bundle distributed by the Department of Health here and UNICEF, but the supply hadn't yet been delivered and was unavailable. When we went to the major hospital, the hospital said he was severely malnourished (which was obvious to just about anyone) and he tested positive for malaria. They prescribed medication, but didn't have the multi-vitamins in stock at the hospital's pharmacy. The pharmacy in town was closed, and we proceeded to the 'black market' of medicine, where former health workers buy medicine in the Kombos and resell them at an inflated cost to those who will pay anything because they desperately need it.
A few days after taking Almamy to the hospital, I had to travel to Kombo. Almamy was released from the hospital while I was away. But during my stay, Almamy died. His condition was already too far gone and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe taking him to the hospital gave him a few more days of life, or maybe it made no difference whatsoever. Sadly, I knew before I even took him that he wasn't going to make it.
So now, will the story of Almamy become the story of Mariama? Deep down, I hope not, but now I realize, one never knows. An innocent child born into this world (compounded with the struggles of Africa) was born merely to suffer---never to enjoy the feat of discovering how to go from a crawl to a walk, experiencing the sounds and shrills that eventually result in a muttering of 'Baba' (Daddy), or mimicking her mother as she carries out her daily tasks of fetching water, washing clothes, and cooking meals. For some reason, I feel like Mariama may become this year's Almamy.
As Mariama's mother, Jainaba, left my compound, my wife told me that they were going to go to the hospital the next day since the child was not better, even though we gave her medicine prescribed by my counterpart. As Jainaba, Mariama, and Mariama's brother left, I felt Mariama's forehead: it was hot---hotter than the day we took her to my counterpart's. Mariama can't talk as she's too young, but her whimpers and spurts of moaning (never really crying) translated clearly---HELP ME.
posted by Stephanie at 3:53 AM
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