Richard Walsh and
Ben Scanlan (two kiwis) flanking newly professed
Alfred Banda with his niece
Penias Mwale... my brother
Christian Brother Richard Walsh meets a young Zambian man dying of AIDS. For Richard, the encounter brings the gospel to life.
Two months ago I had never heard of Penias
Mwale. He is the son, from a previous marriage,
of our cook, Robson. One day Robson asked me
to take his ‘boy’ to the nearby
clinic for some medicine, as he was unable
to walk.
Penias lives about one kilometre away with his grandparents
in a very small house, made of concrete blocks. It
is without electricity and running water. Cooking
is done on charcoal braziers.
Robson guides me through the streets to the house,
from which eventually emerges a very thin and obviously
sick young man. I had thought Robson told me he was
15, and when seeing the lad, quite believed him.
Only later did I discover that he is 29. He is assisted
into our minibus and to the clinic we go. Here he
is given some yellow pills, presumably medicine for
his ailment and we return him home.
Over the next few days I ask Robson whether there
is any improvement. At first it seems there is. However
one day when I ask, I am told that he is not getting
any better and so I offer to take him to a private
clinic. The offer is accepted. I discover Penias
asleep on a reed mat on the ground outside his father’s
house. He is obviously very thin, very tired and
very sick. We manhandle him into our minibus and
off we go to the doctor.
The doctor seems less than enthusiastic about treating
the patient, though of course does so and does so
very professionally. I suspect he thinks Penias is
a lost cause. A malaria test is done. He has malaria.
An HIV test is done. He is HIV positive. He receives
post-test counselling. He learns that if he begins
the newly introduced treatment of anti-retrovirals,
he must stick to the regime for the rest of his life.
To get on to the scheme he must go to the main public
hospital – UTH or University Teaching Hospital,
in Kampala.
And so we go to UTH. As it happens there are mercifully
few at the ‘filter clinic’ through which
one must pass before getting into the hospital proper.
After an examination by a doctor, who is very attentive
and professional I must say, we are sent on our way
for BP, temperature etc. and then to the admissions
ward.
Upon reaching the admissions ward we are told that
there are no free beds and that he has to stay in
his wheelchair. Now this could mean not for minutes
but for hours, even overnight. I might add that this
saga has begun at 2 pm. Fortunately however we discover
that there is an empty bed and since possession is
ten-tenths of the law we possess it immediately,
grotty sheets and all.
Penias is thirsty. He takes the water we have brought.
He wants to urinate. We tell him where the toilet
is, but the doctor who is at the next bed tells him
that he will be out of breath if he goes there and
she wants to examine him. In desperation he takes
one of the three cups we brought and pees into it.
His father takes it for emptying.
Penias is hungry. We also remember to give him the
malaria tablets from our doctor. He drinks the soups
and takes some pasta. Then he gesticulates for something.
We don’t know what it is. Next thing he grabs
his jacket and vomits into it. Before the next throw,
I provide him with the second cup. His father takes
it for emptying and we carefully put the jacket into
a plastic supermarket bag we happen to have.
Throughout it all are the sounds of people in agonising
pain. There is the moving sight of family, friends
and lovers at the side of their loved ones and ready
to stay the night perched on the side of the bed.
There are the doctors and nurses performing their
duties professionally and serenely in such conditions.
That night I do not sleep well. I have nightmares of hospitals and skeletons. The following day I was due to go to a meeting in Accra, Ghana, on the other side of the continent! By the time I return to Lusaka, after one week, I find that Penias has been discharged, has been home, has been bleeding incessantly and has been admitted to the local clinic.
The day after my return from Accra, Robson gets word that the local clinic is referring Penias to no other place than UTH. Yes, indeed, here we go again. I drive to the clinic hoping that we will be told that we can by-pass the filter clinic.
What I see next calls images of Auschwitz to mind. The image that appears in a wheelchair is all teeth and eyeballs. The emaciated body has a head thrown back with mouth open. There is no strength to hold it upright. The bag of skin and bones is loaded into the bus, and there along with this broken body is a father totally nonplussed. I cannot believe the deterioration that has occurred in one week. We manage to get Penias from the bus. In the moment that he is standing prior to sitting in the wheelchair his track pants fall down. Even the elastic waistband cannot hold them up. He has no waist, no hips, no bottom.
We take him to the clinic, by-passing the less sick. Fortunately there is one spare bed, with a clean plastic covered mattress. We waste no time putting Penias on that. Eventually his blood pressure is taken. His arms are so thin that the gadget cannot be wrapped tightly enough and the father must hold it against the arm.
Meanwhile the man in the next bed is soiling himself. The smell is overwhelming and the sight of the relatives taking off his pants and cleaning him up is more than enough. I leave for the next room.
That evening I decide to have my meal alone and replay the day’s events. I find myself in tears at the enormity of the tragedy not only of this young man but of the other many thousands like him. I am grateful for the tears. I go to my room and ‘weep for Jerusalem’. Four weeks ago I had never heard of this man. I did not know he existed. Yet today I know that he is my brother and there are thousands, no millions, like him. He has plunged me more profoundly into the depth of what it is to be a human person than I could imagine.
For many years I have heard that one is evangelised by the poor. What is it to be evangelised? I think now it is to become aware of the good news that we are all connected. That each of us is a brother/sister to the other. That we are not threats to each other, not enemies but gifts. That each of us has a responsibility for the other and that, in the realisation of this, the world can be different and the kingdom of God can emerge.
In Penias Mwale I see a man who is my brother. But his body is ravaged by AIDS. Penias is dying, not because he is HIV positive or has AIDS. He is dying because he is poor. He is dying because he has had poor nutrition. He is dying because until recently anti-retroviral drugs for HIV have been unavailable in so-called ‘third world’ countries because of their cost.
He is dying because those of us with more than we need choose to indulge ourselves rather than even think about the survival of our poor brothers and sisters. He is dying because so many of us put more emphasis on orthodoxy (so-called right doctrine/ideas in all its irrelevance) than orthopraxy (right actions).
Over the next few days I ask about Penias’ welfare, to be told that he is still sick. Robson thinks he will get better. I tell him that I think he will die. One month after the first visit to the private clinic and UTH, I hear that Robson’s son, Penias Mwale, aged 29, has died 12 days short of his 30th birthday.
This has been the story of one person whom I happened to encounter. Can you imagine the enormity of the situation where the equivalent of one jumbo jet full of people dies every hour from AIDS? This is the situation in Africa. The amount of human suffering is beyond description, yet there is an appreciation of life and a gratitude for the smallest of things that is astounding. Somehow, there is a great freedom which comes with an appreciation that life has boundaries. May we all pray that some way will be found to remove this dreadful scourge.