Painful recollections from the past

It's late. And I'm tired. I want nothing more than to go to bed. But I've been reading through my older blog posts and something is bugging me and won't let me sleep.

As I read I became aware that I've missed out so much from my journey that has brought me this far. Of course that's normal. It's totally impossible to remember everything. But some things are more important than others and should be remembered. If only as a mark of respect to those that we have lost...

I'm recalling my time in Kenya and there are three important events that I have not recorded. That's because they were awful and painful and I've avoided them. But that's unfair. Let me share with you what I mean...

The first is my recollection of going to visit Auguste, who was a teacher at the local primary school. He was a handsome, friendly and educated man. However, despite the fact that he was educated he was one of the many who refused to believe that AIDS exists. This was particularly unfortunate as he was one of the millions who was infected with the dreaded disease. He had been prescribed ARV's but would not take them. He was convinced that he was under a spell, that someone was practising witch craft on him.
The group got word that Auguste was not doing well, and that he may need some support, so we set off to walk the 3 miles to his house. We got there and found him in the roadside by his street- he had been walking to try and get water and collapsed. He was in a dreadful state and had obviously been vomiting and was soiled with diarhorrea.We knelt down beside him and tried to talk with him but he was barely conscious. Alice stopped a passer by and told them to run and get the doctor, who was miles away. While we waited, Auguste started to vomit again, this time bringing up blood. His temperature rose to umbelievable heights, and after some convulsions, he died painfully by the roadside.

The second event was the second time that I was mugged. The first was a simple matter of 2 men running up behind me and snatching the gold chain that I wore off my neck. I was upset because the 2 crosses that I had on the chain had sentimental value for me, but nothing worse.
The second time was much worse. I was walking home in full daylight- about 4pm. 2 men came up behind me, attracted by the MP3 player that I was foolishly carrying in my pocket. They jumped on me from behind and dragged me to the ground, and another 2 men came out from where they had been hiding in the bushes. The 4 of them proceeded to search me and became very angry when they found no money. They became very bold, even going to the extremes of putting their hands down my T shirt, at which point I screamed my lungs out. They became pretty angry because I had no money and proceeded to beat me. I don't wish to dwell on the details but suffice it to say that I could not sit down properly for a week and I walked like an old woman for a lot longer.

The third event is the one that has most resonance for me and the one that I have carried with me for almost 2 years. One of the women in the group, Janet, had 8 children and had been left to support them by her philandering husband, who was responsible for giving her HIV. Her youngest son, James, had been born uninfected but her husband had forced her to breast feed the child, and she passed the infection on to James. He was 9 months old and a fine, happy baby. She often brought him to the group's hut so that he could be looked after while she worked as a seamstress. I often cared for him and became very fond of him. James had been sick for some time by the time Janet had enough money to take him to the doctor. He was diagnosed with TB and pnemonia, but she had not enough money to get the drugs for him. I offered her the money and she refused with great dignity, saying that it was up to her to provide for her child. She worked very hard for weeks and almost had enough money to take him back to the doctor. She was at the hut one day working and James was lying on my lap. He was feverish and had clearly taken a turn for the worse. His breathing was poor and laboured. Through the day he deteriorated, and, as I tried to raise him to ease his breathing, he died. He simply stopped breathing and did not respond to anything that we did for him. One of the other members ran for the doctor, who refused to come. He had living people to attend to and was too busy to attend to a baby for whom nothing could be done. So it was that the child who had had no life was left to slip away. The traditional African method of mourning is to scream and shout but Janet did neither of these things. She came and sat on the floor beside me. She gathered her dead child in her arms. And she laid her head in my lap and wept for her baby.

All of these events shape and are indicative of the time that I had in Kenya. It frustrated me greatly that people could literally die in the street and the government did not care for or assist their own people I wanted to help more, but found myself thwarted again and again by red tape and bureacracy. And all the time people died, including small babies. Who never had a chance. And men have to attack others, simply to get money to feed themselves and their families.

So despite the fact that I find these events painful, I record them. I do not blame the men who attacked me. I understand that things more powerful than them drove them. Starvation will do terrible things to people. And I wanted to put Auguste and James down on paper. So that I will not forget them. And to honour their memory.

I hope that I have succeeded.