Stee is the name, Curing Backache is the game - Medicine in Rural Zambia

I’ve been away for some time. And what have I been up to exactly? 

Redefining success.

It had been over 15 years since my last family trip to ekhaya the village home my father comes from in rural Zambia near Kabwe town. No, we are not Zambian. We are Zimbabwean but my grandparents migrated there in the 60’s during the liberation struggle…and I guess they liked it so much they never left! A story for another day.

You can imagine the magnificent reception at our arrival this month. My brothers and I all last seen as tiny tots and now returned as ‘degree'd somebodies’. 

There was some debate, however, among the large extended family whether it was possible to have a female doctor.

“No, no, no, there are no women doctors! They are called nurses,” overheard amongst men seated around the midnight fire as they caressed their traditional brew.

My younger cousins would look at me as I walked across the homestead, unashamedly staring at this wonder that is a woman doctor.

Needless to say, a few days before we left, one of my cousin’s wives brought a very sick baby to me as I was finishing up morning chores. He had been coughing and felt feverish for a few days and the mother was understandably worried. Luckily, I had brought a ‘mini’ medical kit including my stethoscope, a thermometer, tape-measure and patella hammer (that knee jerk reflex is too cool), so I managed to get a reading of 39.5degree temperature and heard crackles in the upper lobes of the lungs. Decidedly pneumonia.  But the child had other danger symptoms which made diagnosis more severe and I had to insist to the family that this child be taken to the nearest clinic for IV antibiotics and fluids.

It was after all that was sorted that a small queue formed outside the little house our family had been put up in. They had seen me with pills in my hand and now everyone had some sort of ailment! Some were serious, others not so much.  This mini clinic became quite long as word spread and more people joined the line outside. I listened to all the complaints, examined quite a number and wrote a few prescriptions for those who needed. I decided to go for a ‘drug-run’ with my father to pick up basic medicines at nearby shop cum pharmacy (about 15km away) because it was evident that many would not get an opportunity to buy the drugs I had advised.  A young boy without evident qualification was manning the shop  selling a myriad of drugs including antibiotics like cloxacillin, metronidazole and augmentin for minimal price and did not require any prescription. Perhaps the firmness and confidence in my voice made him hand them over so easily - perhaps not. I returned to the homestead with painkillers, antihistamines, deworming tablets, anti-inflammatories and vitamins. Christmas had come early in that village I tell you. And, I, my dear friends was Santa.

Less than a day later, on the way to the kitchen, I met my great-aunt telling me how I had cured her back-ache and that indeed I must be a doctor. I had only given her 3 doses of ibuprofen. Cure?

Whatever it was, the people were happier and proud that their daughter had brought ‘healing’ to that home. The words of reassurance made a difference. Never underestimate putting a stethoscope against a chest or feeling for a pulse, even for a moment. I learned that being a doctor is also about just being there. And I was very happy to give back to my own, where I come from. There’s no better feeling…no greater description of success.