by Lisa Grekul
The nurses say that no operation will help Dumi. He’ll almost certainly die soon. They talk about it all the time – in his presence they talk about it, as though he can’t hear them, as though he can’t understand. He’s new to the ward, actually. Dumi’s only been in the hospital for two weeks, lying on a cot in the corner of the playroom, his burnt body swathed in gauze. He is ten years old and fully conscious. When Rosa bends down to him, he whispers into her ear. The nurses feed him every two or three hours with a bottle, like a baby.
On occasion, the nurses let Gugu feed Dumi, to teach her about child care. Gugu is a big girl with Down’s Syndrome. She’s seventeen, tall, big-boned, and full of energy. She also helps the nurses sweep and tidy the playroom, put the babies down for naps. Gugu has spent her life in the Children’s Ward. As far as I know, she was delivered in the Maternity Wing, and then left here by her mother. In a year’s time, when Gugu turns eighteen, she’ll have to go. They’ll sterilize her first. Where? I wonder. Where will she go?
To a government asylum, maybe, in another part of Swaziland. Sipho, nearly fifteen, has to go too – and soon. Because the nurses at the Government Hospital aren’t trained to deal with him. They don’t know how to begin helping him. When Sipho was very small – a baby, they think – his mother went away, or died, more likely, leaving her husband to care for the boy. The husband, though – the father – didn’t know anything about babies; when he left for work on the mines in South Africa, he left Sipho for weeks on end locked in a sort of backroom – a closet, really – in a shack in rural Swaziland with hardly enough food or water to survive. A relative found Sipho seven years ago.
This is the story, at least – the story I heard from Rosa, who heard it from Siya, who heard it from the nurses. There are plenty of holes in it, if you ask me. Maybe something got lost in the translation. I don’t think that Sipho was just tied up and abandoned by his father. Something worse happened to him.
Sipho is like an animal. Sometimes he’s violent. I’ve seen him kicking or slapping the other children, and frequently – very frequently – touching his genitals, playing with his stool. He can’t walk. When the nurses untie the rags that bind him to the playroom table, he moves around on all fours, grunting, snarling. Supposedly, he can’t talk either. But we’ve all heard Sipho utter swear words, clear as day. And not in SiSwati, either. In English. People in rural Swaziland don’t speak English. Where did Sipho learn English swear words like asshole and bloody hell and cock?
Precious is terrified of Sipho – terrified of his grunting and snarling. Really, any loud noise drives her under a blanket in the corner of the playroom. So long as the ward is quiet, though, Precious is fine. Relaxed, and calm. Looking at her, in fact, she seems like a completely normal thirteen-year-old. As normal as any child her age. Except for her fear of loud noises, and the long, white line across her neck. According to the nurses, Precious was raised by a grandmother who yelled at the girl constantly. After the yelling came the beating. And then, to further discipline the child, the grandmother tied her to a wall. By the neck. With copper wire.
I’m a little suspicious of the nurses. They look chronically bored. When they do anything – wash a face, fold a towel, even walk – they do it slowly and reluctantly. The nurses at the hospital are badly paid, I’m sure. But sometimes I wonder if they’ve had a hand in scarring the children – if they untie Sipho only when we’re present, watching them; if they really care to teach Gugu a few basic life skills, or if they enjoy seeing Gugu do their work; if they themselves haven’t resorted to yelling on occasion. Sometimes I think that better pay wouldn’t make any difference at all.
I’ve never seen a doctor in the Children’s Ward.
There is, though, on the Children’s Ward, a kind of social order among the children. A set of rules, unwritten, of course, but understood by everyone. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The healthier children belong at the bottom of the pecking order; the sicker the child, the higher the status. Mbuso, the boy with spina bifida, is at the top; he’s the enforcer, the ringleader of the ward who polices the healthy and protects the weak. No one is to tease Precious, no one is to intentionally frighten her with a raised voice. No one is ever to point to or laugh at Sipho, regardless of what he might say or do. No harm must come to Dumi – his cot is sacred. No balls can be thrown his way, no toys tossed in his direction. Gugu is to be treated like a woman, with respect.
I’ve also learned that Mbuso has a crush on Rosa. I’ve seen it with my own eyes – the way he stares at her as she lays out her art supplies on the table and on the floor in the playroom; the way he watches her as she helps the other children draw or paint, guiding their hands across the paper, and praising their work. He looks at her with such longing, such craving. As though he could at any moment break down and cry for her.
Mbuso loves Rosa, without a doubt. And he hates Ayanda. He would bash Ayanda’s head against the cement floor, I think, if he could. If he had the strength.
Ayanda is a baby, three or four months old, and new to the ward. A month ago he was brought in by a taxi driver who found him in the Mbabane taxi rink. Ayanda – the nurses named him – is not likely to last in the hospital. The nurses know it, Mbuso knows it. I know it. He’s an infant, and he’s perfectly healthy, and it’s only a matter of time before somebody adopts him.
Rosa won’t hear of it. Today, for the fourth week in a row, she carries Ayanda in her arms for the full four hours of Community Service. She refuses to put him down. While she directs the other children’s art work, she bounces Ayanda, rocks Ayanda, talks baby-talk to Ayanda. Holds the bottle to his lips, sings him lullabies.
I’m not like Rosa. I’m nothing like her. I’m not tough enough for the hospital. I don’t know how to get through to the children, how to make them see that I’m their friend. I don’t speak SiSwati, like Rosa. That’s part of the problem. And none of the children speaks English. But it’s more than that. Most students who have volunteered at the hospital over the years couldn’t speak SiSwati – Rosa is an exception – and they never had problems. It’s me. I’m scared of the children. They’re so sick, and so fragile. I’m afraid that if I touch them, I’ll hurt them. I’ll make them cry. They’ll break in my hands. Mbuso eyes me like a mother protecting her brood. He knows that I don’t belong here. He can sense it. He watches me constantly, ready to catch me if I make one wrong move.
When I first started coming to the hospital, some of the children who have always lived on the ward – Mbuso, Precious, even Gugu – flocked to my side, asking for Steve. They all asked, “Where is Steve?” – in SiSwati, of course, with the nurses or Rosa translating so that I could understand.
“When is Steve coming? Today? Will Steve be here today? Will Steve come tomorrow?”
Steve, apparently, was a Waterford student on scholarship from the United States who used to volunteer on the Children’s Ward. He came to the hospital before Rosa started her volunteer work here. Which would make it six or seven years ago. He must have made quite an impression, this Steve, because the children and all of the nurses remember him, after all this time. The children miss him the most. They’re still waiting for his return, hoping that one Tuesday morning he’ll stroll though the playroom doors. In my voice – in my accent, I suppose – they hear Steve.
But the children aren’t stupid. After the first few weeks of asking for Steve, they figure out that I’m not going to bring him back. Sometimes I think that they blame me for it, too. As though I’m keeping Steve from them, by taking his place. As though if I were to stay away, there would be room for Steve again.
I wish that I were Steve. I wish that I were Rosa. I wish that I were anybody but me.
Today, though, I’m trying something different. Instead of sitting with the children, and trying to play with them – pulling out the second-hand toys that have been donated to the Children’s Ward – I’m going to try playing my guitar, and singing. For the past few weeks, I’ve been talking to Thandiwe about
my problems at the hospital, and she suggested that I bring my guitar with me to the hospital. She said that I should try singing some of the African songs I’ve learned from her and her friends.
It’s not actually a new idea. When I first started volunteering at the hospital, my plan was to bring my guitar with me every week. Every Tuesday morning, I was going to brighten the Children’s Ward with music. Music is the universal language, after all. Everyone speaks it.
Rosa talked me out of it. She didn’t like the idea at all. Rosa thought that the children at the hospital would feel intimidated by my guitar; many of them have never seen or heard a guitar, and it would frighten them. Mbuso, she said, could grab for it, and break it. Gugu might run away. Sipho would almost certainly become agitated. No – no guitar. Rosa was adamant.
I’m starting to see why.
Rosa doesn’t actually want me to connect with the children. She wants the children all to herself. Carlo and Siya can take some of the healthier boys outside – that’s all right. But the sickest children are hers and hers alone. It’s so obvious to me now. Why didn’t I see it before?
After I pull out my guitar, a half-dozen children gather at my side. As soon as I start strumming, others join them. They might be a little shy, at first – but not for long. I sit on a chair in the corner of the playroom – the kind of chair meant for a child’s body – and, shortly after I start singing, the whole ward comes to a stop, nurses included. Precious stands right next to me, her hands on my shoulders. Gugu kneels at my feet, brushing her fingers softly – gently – against the guitar strings. Sipho, who has been growling all morning in the corner, starts rocking back and forth, sucking on his fingers. I sing “Row Row Row Your Boat,” “My Bonnie,” “Twinkle Twinkle.” I sing pop songs, and rock and roll songs. I even try some of the Ukrainian songs that I’m analyzing in my Extended Essay. Lively, uptempo songs like “Oi chorna ia sy chorna” and “Chervona rozha.”
It doesn’t seem to matter what I sing. The children aren’t fussy. They clap their hands, their tiny bodies swaying in time with the music. Mbuso sits a few feet away from me for awhile, watching, cautiously. But within minutes, he’s given me the nod of approval. After a few songs, I take a break. I put the guitar in his hands and show him how to strum with his right hand while I use my left hand to form the chords. Mbuso is thrilled. He’s playing the guitar.
Mbuso is thrilled, the other children are thrilled, I’m thrilled.
And Rosa is furious. I can tell by her body language – by the way she stands apart from the rest of us, bouncing Ayanda on her hip, pretending that she’s not interested in the little concert that’s taking place. She paces from one end of the playroom to the other, frowning. She starts watching the clock. Usually I’m the one who watches it. At a quarter to twelve, she announces that it’s time for us to pack up. Usually I’m the one who notes the time. I pretend that I haven’t heard her. I’m not ready to leave. As I start to sing “Thula Mama Thula” to the children – a song that they take to immediately, because Zulu is so similar to SiSwati – Rosa marches over to my corner of the playroom, demanding that I put my guitar away. For the first time ever, the children want to be with me – they want to sing with me, they want to touch my guitar – and she can’t stand it.
At ten minutes to twelve, Siya and Carlo return to the ward with their entourage of panting, perspiring little boys. One of the nurses takes Ayanda from Rosa. Normally, I would be relieved. I would be counting the minutes to my hot shower, and my fresh towel. Today, I want more time. I’m not ready to go.
At three minutes to twelve, the Sisters of Mercy start to arrive, and our time is up for the week.
When I first heard about the Sisters of Mercy, I thought they were a group of nuns. Like Les Soeurs de l’Assumption in St. Paul, Sister Maria’s order. But they’re not nuns. Their founding mother may well have been Catholic but all present members are British – English British, that is. Church of England, I assume, though they rarely talk about religion. They talk, instead, about their children, who board at private schools in England, and their husbands, who are – any day now – expecting re-appointments to London. All of their husbands work, I assume, for the British High Commissioner. That or they run The Club in Mbabane. Because the Sisters of Mercy – Charlotte, Mae, Lenora, and Blanche – are always chatting about tea at the Consulate or tea at The Club. As far as I can tell, their primary objective is to make tea parties for the hospital children every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. I half expect them to turn up one day in flouncy hats and short, white gloves.
They mean well, of course. Rosa is always reminding me that they mean well. They bring second-hand toys for the children, and second-hand books. Second-hand clothing, blankets, towels. More like third-hand, I think, or fourth-hand. More like scraps that their servants have thrown away.
Today, the Sisters of Mercy bring a new woman with them to the Children’s Ward. She’s so unlike the other Sisters of Mercy that Rosa, Siya, Carlo, and I stop in the doorway of the playroom to stare.
She’s sinewy and lean, and taller than the regular Sisters of Mercy. Or at least she seems taller. Her hair has been teased and lifted and hairsprayed into a great copper ball on the top of her head. Her skin is copper, too. Her arms, ankles, neck – they’re all tanned copper. She wears black, slip-on, backless sandals with four-inch spiked heels and a form-fitting backless, sleeveless halter top that ties around her neck. There’s a leopard-spotted scarf around her neck, too, that perfectly matches her leopard-spotted jeans which are, I would say, three-sizes too small.
Jeans. In a government building.
Next to the copper woman, the regular ladies – Charlotte, Mae, Lenora, Blanche – look smaller and plainer and paler than ever in their cotton print blouses, their brown cotton skirts, their flat-soled, practical shoes.
One of the Sisters of Mercy, Blanche, clears her throat as she introduces the new woman.
“This is Bernadette. Bernadette is one of our German friends.”
As she struts around the playroom, surveying the children, Bernadette ignores Rosa, Siya, Carlo, me. The nurses. Blanche, and the other Sisters of Mercy. All of us.
“Bernadette,” Blanche continues, “is going to be taking little Ayanda.”
“Bernard!” says Bernadette, lifting Ayanda from the arms of the nurse who is holding him.
Rosa’s face turns blotchy, I feel her body stiffen next to mine.
“What do you mean taking Ayanda?” says Rosa, addressing the Sisters of Mercy, I think, but glaring straight at Bernadette.
“Taking him to Germany,” says Blanche. “As soon as he’s healthy enough to travel. Bernadette is adopting him. Isn’t that lovely? Good for little Ayand – er – Bernard. Good for him! Good for everyone! Think how all the children will benefit from Bernadette’s generous contribution to the Children’s Ward.”
One of the other Sisters of Mercy shoots Blanche a dirty look and Blanche suddenly stops talking.
Carlo declares that we have to be going. The bus is waiting for us by the front doors.
“His name is Ayanda,” says Rosa, raising her voice to the Sisters of Mercy, Bernadette, whoever will listen.
I touch Rosa’s arm, whispering that we have to leave now. She shakes my hand away, then starts to move toward Bernadette. Siya and I exchange glances.
“Ayanda,” Rosa says. “Not Bernard. Ayanda. And he doesn’t want to go to Germany. He wants to stay in Swaziland. Swaziland is his home. He can’t talk yet but if he could, he’d tell you himself. He’d tell you that he wants to stay here and –”
Bernadette turns her back to Rosa.
Mae says, “Oh dear.”
Rosa tries to pull Ayanda from Bernadette’s arms. Bernadette, who doesn’t seem at all upset by Rosa, pulls Ayanda back, lifting the baby high over her head, out of Rosa’s reach.
Charlotte says, “Oh heavens.”
Ayanda starts to cry. In the corner, Mbuso, I see, is smiling.
“See?” say
s Rosa, nearly crying herself. “Ayanda doesn’t want you. He doesn’t need you. You have no right to take him. You can’t just buy children. You have no right! There are laws.” Then the tone of Rosa’s voice changes. “Come, sweetheart. Come, it’s all right. I’ll take you, now, my darling.”
Beneath Bernadette, Rosa stands wiggling her fingers, her arms outstretched to take the baby. Bernadette – entirely unaffected by Rosa – walks to the other side of the playroom, bouncing Ayanda in her arms, talking to him in German. The only word I can understand is “Bernard.” She says it again and again.
Crying, now, and yelling – yelling terrible things about Krauts and Nazis – Rosa follows Bernadette around the playroom. Bernadette keeps moving, spitting the odd German phrase over her shoulder at Rosa. There are more “Oh dears” and “Oh heavens’s” from the Sisters of Mercy who wring their hands helplessly. The nurses busy themselves with folding diapers, putting toys away in the cupboard. All of the other children stand and stare.
Siya and I have to half-carry, half-drag Rosa out of the ward, comforting her as we go. Carlo walks behind us, carrying his soccer ball and Rosa’s art supplies. Rosa fights us the whole way, hanging onto railings, trying to dig in her heels.
Through her sobs, Rosa says a half-dozen sad, crazy things – things like “My baby, my little one. My sweetheart, I’ll take you home. I’ll take you.” But we have to go – Ayanda has to go – and she knows it.
As we approach the bus, Rosa changes tactics. She tries pleading with us. When the pleading doesn’t work, she lists things that she has forgotten in the ward. “I forgot my pencil crayons, I forgot my pastels, I forgot my purse.” But Carlo has her box of art supplies. Rosa doesn’t own a purse.
She lashes out at Siya and me, then. “Let go of me, you bitch! You son of a bitch, let go!”
I forgive her for this before she’s even said it. I remind her that the bus is full of people, that everyone can see her. What I want to tell her – what I will tell her later, and what she will come to accept because she has no choice but to accept it – is that Ayanda is lucky to have a future, now. A future filled with good food to eat and a regular home and nice clothes.