This is a letter from Cathy Buckle which I received a few minutes ago. I’ve immediately e-mailed her asking if she is able to pass on US$, which I’d transfer to her, to assist that family. If she is able to do this does anyone wish to join me in helping these poor souls out?
Dear Family and Friends,
Late in the afternoon a friend got a call on his mobile phone. The words were garbled and broken up, the call lasting just a few seconds before cutting off. The musukuru (grandson) is serious, come now. You have to be a Zimbabwean perhaps to know that the word ‘serious’ usually means very sick. What would be a problem, even an emergency in the “normal” world was destined to be a nightmare in our broken country.
Again and again my friend tried to phone for more information about his grandson but after numerous attempts gave up. He was wasting time. His grandson is in a rural village, it was almost dusk and he knew he must go. A fifteen kilometre bicycle ride got him to the village. It was completely dark when he arrived. By the light of a candle he looked at his precious little musukuru. Teeth clenched, face in a grimace, body curled in taut foetal position, the two year old boy obviously needed help. He had been vomiting copiously, shaking and arching his back and now the slightest movement caused him to scream in pain.
The nearest clinic is 3 kilometres away. There is no transport, private or public. No telephones. No electricity, not even any running water to wash away the vomit. An ambulance will not come from the nearest town, not unless you can pay cash, in advance, up front: 50 US dollars. As gently as possible the musukuru was laid in a box which was lifted onto the back of the bicycle and tied securely with strips of old car-tyre inner tubing. Blankets underneath and on top of the musukuru in the freezing cold winter darkness, the journey from hell began. Every stone, bump and gully on the disintegrating gravel road caused a scream of agony from the child. Words of comfort were measured against the urgency of the journey. At the clinic at last, there was no sign of attendance. Calling, shouting, knocking finally produced a youngster: No nurses here, he said.
The next clinic is another 7 kilometres away. The grandparents finally arrived, pushing their grandson in the box on the bicycle at 2 in the morning. Shivering and with frozen fingers their lifted their precious musukuru into the hands of the nurse. They knew what to expect and had bought a small sheet for the bed, their own blankets, a towel and even maize meal and a small pot to make porridge for the child. A drip went in, that’s 14 US dollars, payable immediately. An intravenous antibiotic was given, that’s 12 US dollars, payable immediately.
Two days later my friend was back in town and stone broke. The musukuru is still in the clinic, still on a drip and still has a problem. There are no doctors there. The nurses say that sekuru must pay for more drugs. His cell phone is flat. He has no money, no airtime left and back there, down the dusty pot-holed road the life of his little grandson is in his hands.