I had to double, in fact triple, maybe quadruple think about this title before I clicked – post. Recently, a section of Ugandans were crying over the could-be king of Tooro for using the F-word in nearly every statement he made when addressing a team. As an athlete in the US, I actually laughed at how little he used the word. In the US, the F-word is a conjunction in sports locker-room lingo. But anyway, I am not here to discuss Tooro’s issues nor the use of the F-word. I am here to talk about how we have become perfect examples of the F-word as a nation.
The death of King Oyo sparked a lot of discussion surrounding the misdiagnosis in most Ugandan hospitals. I think one of the biggest lessons for any Ugandan this year has been that we are all capable of being victims to our environment regardless of what titles, accolades, service to the country, or stature we hold. Think back to the horrifying death of the late Sydney Gongodyo, a dignified man who had put his body on the line for the national team, dying at the hands of thugs. On top of that, he was carried like a log of wood in those police kabagali cars as he was ferried to the national hospital. Then came the late Maxine Anyango, a young athlete who fell to a medical proceedure gone wrong. Her case wasn’t any different from that of a prominent political figure, the late Hellen Nakimuli, who also passed away at the hands of the medical system. To mention but a few as the list could as well become the whole article.
The writer of this blog is also a published author of Once I Arrived, a book born from stories, emotions, and experiences that deserve to be felt. If you’ve enjoyed reading this blog, don’t hesitate to grab a copy of Once I Arrived. To get your copy, contact Nabusiita Ruth Kisolo
Honestly, how badly has the system f’d us up as Ugandans? Like, can someone coin a term for the type of country we are, where we talk about the current events with vigor and anger and end up with no solid solution, but if Sheeba talks about her husband or when chosen Becky lines up her seventh child, we all have seemingly solutions to their lives.
In my last article, I talked about my friend who finally got her ACL surgery. I was happy for her, and I remain happy for her. First, because it was successful, and secondly because she is not running to Pastor XYZ or a shrine in Jinja or Masaka for help. One of the things I didn’t tell you, though, was that during that time we were having this push and pull of her having surgery; she told me, “The death of Maxine has scared me to the core. I don’t think I want to have surgery.” And honestly, her reason was VERY VALID.
As I prepared for my surgery, unlike in Uganda, where I have family and also where our way of life is communal, it’s a different story in the US. For example, I can wake up today and throw a plan into someone’s life, and they immediately pick it up, while the US operates differently. If you want to hang out or need help with something, you have to inform the person nearly a month or weeks prior so that they add it to their calendar/plans (welcome to a capitalistic world).
So I reached out to this friend and asked them, “Are you in a position to take me to my surgery?”
She replied, “I have classes. I can’t miss them.”
I texted back, “What if this is the last time you get to see my pretty smile?”
She replied, “Stop being funny. How can you die from a knee injury?”
I laughed. I laughed not because her response was funny but because of the huge gap in our realities. I am from a country where any surgery, however small, can possibly transition into your last day on earth. I went ahead and told her about the late Anyango, and believe me, she was so shocked.
Away from the fear, when I asked my friend why she finally had the surgery. This was, in fact, many months after we had talked about it. She replied, “I was actually misdiagnosed the time I had an MRI.” So it turned out that she had had an MRI but the MRI had shown that her ACL was intact.
I just nodded my head.
As we texted, it had been less than a week since my mother had told me that she learnt that she doesn’t have ulcers. My mother had been heavily medicated for ulcers for the past two or three years, and it’s now that she learned that she didn’t have ulcers after another medical check-up.
I thought about the many other misdiagnoses that go unnoticed, and yet medical bills keep building up with each medication. Or the misdiagnoses that are caught at the last minute, and no help can be offered.
Stories of Ugandans coming out and speaking about their misdiagnosis experiences at the expense of our medical system reminded me of my kid brother, Je. For those that have read his story, bet you recall how, for nearly a month, a doctor persistently prescribed pneumonia and cold medication for him. It turned out the little guy had three holes in his heart. By the way, this is in 2012. Fourteen years later, misdiagnosis is still alive and kicking in the system.
And the funny bit (which shouldn’t be funny) has been stories told by women. Where, with every visit, the first questions asked are, “Are you pregnant? Are you having several sexual partners?” Questions along those lines. And you wonder what a hurting toe has to do with the last time you had sex!
Anyway, the Observer took the onus to write something on its Twitter page. It read;
“The now-deceased Tooro kingdom leader visited some high-end hospitals in Kampala after feeling persistent back pain. X-rays, MRI scans later, they told him they saw nothing.
Being a person of means, he flew to a hospital in Nairobi where he was diagnosed with cancer. A year later, he was dead. What did the doctors in Nairobi see that the Kampala ones couldn’t?
Well, Nairobi has a Positron Emission Tomography (PET) scan or a few. Kampala and the whole of Uganda don’t. A PET scan costs about $3m (Shs 11.7bn) or approximately 17 Land Cruisers.
If there was a meeting of government officials, you would run out of space to park them. That is how many we have in Uganda but a PET Scan is not something we have been able to buy and install yet.”
Ah ah. I don’t know what I can add to that other than quoting my forever favorite poem by Henry Barlow;
Building the Nation
Today I did my share
In building the nation.
I drove a Permanent Secretary
To an important urgent function
In fact to a luncheon at the Vic.
The menu reflected its importance
Cold Bell beer with small talk,
Then fried chicken with niceties
Wine to fill the hollowness of the laughs
Ice-cream to cover the stereotype jokes
Coffee to keep the PS awake on the return journey.
I drove the Permanent Secretary back.
He yawned many times in the back of the car
Then to keep awake, he suddenly asked,
Did you have any lunch friend?
I replied, looking straight ahead
And secretly smiling at his belated concern
That I had not, but was slimming!
Upon which he said with a seriousness
That amused more than annoyed me,
Mwananchi, I too had none!
I attended to matters of state.
Highly delicate diplomatic duties you know,
And friend, it goes against my grain,
Causes me stomach ulcers and wind.
Ah, he continued, yawning again,
The pains we suffer in building the nation!
So the PS had ulcers too!
My ulcers I think are equally painful
Only they are caused by hunger,
Not sumptuous lunches!
So two nation builders
Arrived home this evening
With terrible stomach pains
The result of building the nation –
– Different ways.
And by the way, just like the news hit the media in one night, that’s how the demand for a better health care system is also going to end in one night. We will wake up discussing nude pictures posted by Chicken Chicken, and grant them more importance over what we should focus on.
The writer of this blog is also a published author of Once I Arrived, a book born from stories, emotions, and experiences that deserve to be felt. If you’ve enjoyed reading this blog, don’t hesitate to grab a copy of Once I Arrived. To get your copy, contact Nabusiita Ruth Kisolo
