Mama Jude: An Australian Nurse’s Extraordinary Other Life In Africa

by Judy Steel

  Once everything was in place, the new clinic was tested immediately. The sick or parents with sick children lined up outside when I opened the door at nine and I often wouldn’t draw breath until one o’clock. My routine was to quickly go through the women to find out who I could treat and who needed to see Edward. One morning, a woman came in who I had met on a walking clinic. She was painfully thin and had three children with her with another two at home. Her three-month-old and six-year-old were fine, but the eighteen-month-old had a raging temperature, bad cough and dehydration. I treated them all as well as I could for worms, malaria and infections. At the end of the treatment, the woman mentioned that her husband had been away but was returning soon, so she wanted to know about family planning. I paused for a moment and thanked God the word was out. I sent the family to see the nurse, Nora, who worked at the hospital, for a quick lesson in family planning. I gave her a small amount of food to feed the children. After they left I wondered how much difference it would make: how would she feed these little ones and herself next week? I was sure the husband wouldn’t stay because he apparently left last time because he couldn’t cope with all the children. The woman returned the next week for treatment and asked for money, work and food, but I just couldn’t give her any more. It made me feel like the worst kind of person.

  One morning Nora came to the clinic loaded down with foodstuffs for a nutrition education session. She was a beautiful woman and her smile and infectious laugh brightened every day. We were worried no-one would come, but there were so many mothers we couldn’t have fitted any more. Others drifting in later for immunisations stuck their heads in wanting to learn as well. Nora began her sessions by explaining that they didn’t need to eat meat or fish to survive but instead taught about the protein, carbohydrate and vitamin content in all the flours, beans and rice she had brought along. When she asked for questions the floodgates opened, and I eventually had to call an end to the session because the babies were getting fretful and it was time to conduct the clinic.

  One of the best things about sharing Judy’s house was being able to unload our thoughts at the end of long days, often while cooking up fish or a barbecue. I also introduced her to the joys of an occasional glass of wine. We found a butcher who sold proper lamb and cooked a sort of double lamb loin chop, which we renamed ‘spine of lamb’. I was even prepared to put up with the rubbish from the men at the market to buy fresh fruit and vegetables; I hated the harassment, but it’s the same for all mzungus.

  With me now sharing the expenses, Judy was able to afford a few luxuries which she had gone without. Together we sought out occasional escapes. Sometimes I would bring the TV home from the clinic so we could watch videos, and other times we met after work to see a movie. One Friday night we headed off to the theatre to see a strictly amateur production of The Sound of Music. The theatre was showing its age, it seemed that the orchestra sometimes played from different pages of music, the scenery was basic and at times the curtain got caught in the stage props, but the cast were wonderful. The von Trapps were various shades of white and black, with the tiniest child being a gorgeous little Ugandan who got the loudest applause at the end of the night. The audience was encouraged to help out by singing along and we had a ball.

  Another evening we went to see a visiting American evangelist Joyce Myer. After the service we walked home in the dull street lighting and eventually down the pitch black lane that led to the cottage. We were holding on to each other when I said, ‘I wonder where our askari (guard) is?’ Out of the dark came a whisper, ‘I am here.’ We heard the voice but couldn’t see him, he was in a tree watching out for us.

  Ugandans have beautiful laughs and smiles, but you also need a hard edge to survive in this country. One evening I was coming home from work in Edward’s car. Out the window I saw what I thought was a dog lying on the road, hit by a car. Then I realised it was a boy. Ben, who was driving, said he had seen the boy fall off the back of a truck. We stopped and, as Ben halted the boda-boda drivers and other cars from racing up and down the road, I nursed this precious little person in my arms. He was unconscious but quickly came around and became frightened. Onlookers advised me not to touch him because he was ‘dust’ – a street kid. We put him in the car and drove to a doctor, whose first question to me was, ‘Did you hit him?’ I replied that I was the Good Samaritan. His next question was who was going to pay the bill. The boy turned out to be fine. His name was John and he spoke no English. He wasn’t a street kid but had been hanging around the streets looking for food or money. I paid for the examination plus a tetanus shot and some paracetamol tablets and walked him back to his home with a note for his mama including my name and number. I didn’t hear from them, which I took as a good sign.

  The episode underlined a fragility and vulnerability I had been feeling on this third trip. I felt totally responsible for the correct use of the container and contents but even more so for the donations which had been given. There had been so much publicity in Australia I felt a duty to show everyone how their hard work was being put to good use. After a lifetime of achieving and allowing others to rely on me, I just couldn’t stop living that way, it was part of who I am. Henri Nouwen described it in his book The Life of the Beloved as a life lived in a world which is constantly trying to convince us that the burden is on us to prove that we are worthy of being loved. I see myself reflected in that and wrote this in my journal:

  People back home think I am some sort of super woman but I am not. I am weak and very, very ordinary and the load is very, very heavy. I am not too proud of myself at the moment. I just seem to be finding things too hard this year. Perhaps I am getting too old for this. Perhaps it is time for me to quit. Perhaps it is just time for God to find someone else to do this work. It seems that the smallest thing that goes wrong becomes a real hurdle for me. Perhaps I am not praying enough. Perhaps I am not good enough for this. I thought that I knew what brokenness was, but this year God seems to be pushing me further and I wonder why?

  That Sunday I caught the bus into town and walked for nearly thirty minutes to All Saints Cathedral for Pentecost. At one stage when we were singing, the clapping got louder and faster until everyone spontaneously joined hands right across the church. It was a beautiful service and I felt refreshed and uplifted.

  I may have felt spiritually renewed, but physically I was suffering from a painful knee and ankle, so I shortened the walking clinics and found two widows to assist me. I asked them what the people think of the mzungu walking around in Najjanankumbi and they replied that many were suspicious, believing I was there to make money by selling photos in Australia. They also thought anyone who accompanied me was automatically wealthy by association. To counter this whenever there were meetings at the clinic I took pains to explain how UACO was a volunteer organisation and that no-one, including Edward and me, made any money. Although UACO shared the same compound with Edward’s hospital the two organisations were separate. It worked well because these people went back to the community and spread the word that I was paying my own way. Eventually it turned right around and they thought I had a wonderful husband who allowed me to leave home to visit them.

  Despite this, I found the walking clinics to be some of the most wonderful experiences of my life. Every day I met amazing people who taught me the true meaning of respect, kindess, survival and humility. One incredible individual was Bosco, who had been left paralysed after an accident two years before. Married with three small children, his wife made mats and crocheted baby blankets to sell, but there was little demand for them. He had a wheelchair which was so ancient that it was nothing more than a shower chair on wheels. His legs were covered in badly infected ulcers so I arranged for strong antibiotics and dressings and taught his wife, Aisha, how to apply them. When I returned a week later with a wheelchair from the container shipment, everyone was so excited. His friend jumped over a fence to see what was happening and then wheeled him around to visit others and get the sun on his face aga
in. Aisha took to nursing naturally and did a wonderful job dressing his legs and there was rapid improvement.

  Another time I met the most beautiful woman named Queenie, who was thirty-three and dying of AIDS. Her father had three wives and Queenie was one of sixteen children, about half of whom had already died of AIDS. Her brother Dan was looking after about twenty sick members of his family. Queenie was too sick to come to the clinic but I promised to visit regularly.

  With the success of the restaurant created from the fledgling micro loan from Australia the widows were determined to create more opportunities. They suggested holding education days for those interested. We were discussing who could be invited to talk when Allan rang from Adelaide to tell me the committee in Adelaide had received several donations and felt the money was best spent completing the hospital. When I hung up and gave Edward the good news he shouted out, ‘Praise God and thank you!’ After everyone had gone I spent a few hours going over the spreadsheets. I wanted to make sure everything was financially transparent. This was the first time I had done this sort of accounting but it was important given the amount of money that had been donated by Australians. It became a regular practice. In Uganda I had met some wonderful people, but I had also been manipulated and lied to by professionals.

  One mortifying experience involved our sponsored child, Beth. I had recently discovered that, despite paying for private schooling for two years, she finished 101st in a class of 101. I was particularly annoyed because back in Australia I received a letter from her written in English, which clearly someone else had forged because she couldn’t read, write or speak English. When I had visited Beth in the past she could only say simple English words like hello and thankyou and so her mother did all the talking for her. She clearly had not advanced. I visited Beth in her house and lined up her mother, Anna-Mary, making it very plain that if she didn’t put in some effort her daughter wouldn’t ever get a job. Beth was clearly sick and losing weight. Edward diagnosed her with hookworm, which attacks red blood cells and explained why she was feeling lethargic and dizzy. I bought a triple bunk bed so everyone who slept in their one little room could at least get off the floor. Anna-Mary asked me for a new Bible because hers was falling apart, so I gave her one plus money for food and clothes for Beth. As I was leaving she suggested exchanging her shoes for my sandals – she got told.

  One day all my frustrations with life in Uganda boiled over, so I directed my negative energy with sandpaper. When the container was being converted into a clinic, workmen had cut spaces for the windows and doors to be fitted but didn’t protect the exposed steel in any way, so the humidity had quickly turned the edges rusty. I rubbed down all the surfaces and painted on bright yellow rust-stopping paint. Everyone working at the hospital – nurses, guys building the fence, welders and cleaners alike – was fascinated by the mzungu. The painters were paid out all afternoon by Edward, who told them laughingly, ‘You should go see the mzungu – she will show you how to work.’

  My three months in Uganda had flown by and it was nearly time to leave. I told Edward that I would return again the following year. Rita from the widows’ association came with me on the walking clinic as I started saying goodbye to my jajas. They were so excited with the gifts of vaseline (for their skin), sugar, soap and tea that we brought, but also sad they wouldn’t see me for another year. One old woman named Alice Mary asked, ‘How can one person love me so much?’ It was quite an emotional moment for me. She who had nothing gave me so much.

  We visited Queenie and Dan. He had got three members of his extended family to help him and although they were young teenagers I spent time teaching them how to take better care of her. They promised to keep her room clean and bathe her. She was very weak and sick and I feared she would only live for a few more weeks. We came across great-grandfather Anthony, who looked as well as someone who is almost ninety and looking after six small children can. I gave him money for food and told him God had a very special place in heaven reserved for such a kind and good man. I found one woman who was very hungry and another desperately needing a blanket. One of the old women said she would die while I was gone and I wouldn’t be there for her funeral.

  The widows felt that the biggest problem in Najjanankumbi was the orphans. Every widow I knew in this area had taken in at least one of them, and this often led to a lack of food and space. In the long term there was often not enough money for the children to go to school. We decided to start registering the orphans and also made a register of youths, if for no other reason than to get a better idea of the size of the challenge.

  The clinic was now operating almost daily. Mondays and Thursdays were for counselling and advice, Tuesdays for immunisations and health care, and there were plans to begin a functional adult literacy school on Fridays. Wednesdays were set aside for walking clinics. My final immunisation clinic was packed and I was thrilled to see the Congolese refugees there in large numbers. The immunisations came from the Ugandan Department of Health. Afterwards the nurses, Victor and Nora, told me that if the clinic had not been there, many of the refugees’ babies would have died. I hadn’t thought of that before and it was very sobering.

  On my last day there was a final flurry of activity, including Florence Kyamanywa agreeing to work as a part-time social worker at the clinic. She had a degree in social work, was married to a doctor and was a good friend of Edward’s. I knew she was a gift after witnessing the respectful way she treated the widows at her first meeting.

  Edward’s hospital was now fully occupied and operational twenty-four hours per day. If anything, this had extended his vision, and he had plans drawn up to convert the original eight bed hospital into an operating theatre. One of our final actions was to register the project officially with Barclays Bank as the Uganda Australia Christian Outreach (UACO) and open a bank account with a $1000 deposit. This only covered the clinic as Edward kept his hospital accounts separate. Edward pulled some strings to make it happen in hours rather than the usual days and said things were moving at mzungu speed. The bank required photos for identification and when I looked at mine I wondered who it was: tired looking, grubby, with no make-up nor a comb through my hair, I looked like an old woman – but one who was excited about the future. I had done everything I could think of for the clinic and hospital.

  When I sat down to write in my diary I thought of all that had happened and wondered where the strength had come from. My final entry was brief:

  I really am a bit of a mess. I am just going to miss them so much.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I FLEW FROM UGANDA via England and took the opportunity to visit Fiona. It was my birthday and she gave me a day in a beauty parlour as a present. We had several wonderful days together during which I felt so relaxed and spoilt.

  I was only home in Adelaide a few days when Peter, Katrina and the children came to stay. Their family had now increased to two little boys, Michael and Joshua. I was reading them stories at seven o’clock one morning when Allan came in with the horrific news of the attack on the twin towers in New York. I rang my mother and she was genuinely fearful that it was the beginning of the end of the world. I was so grateful I was back in Australia with my family but I did wonder if it would ever be safe to travel again and if I would be able to return to Uganda.

  Edward and Florence filed monthly reports to me via email, showing the progress being made. I would then circulate them to the other committee members. UACo continued to evolve with Edward bringing together several people in Uganda to form what he called the Executive. Before I had left I had drawn up an organisational chart so everyone knew the structure of UACO. Edward and I were at the top with Florence in charge of the clinic and reporting to Edward. Edward’s accountant, Bukenya, was responsible for managing the funds and then the various projects that had been started and the people involved in them. The walking clinics were continuing each Wednesday with at least two widows being accompanied by a nurse from Edward’s hospital. In addition, the
lady scouts identified where they could help in practical ways. AIDS counselling had also begun, though in a very small way. It was frustrating because most of the assistance went to those in the final stages who needed nursing care because they hadn’t sought assistance earlier. I wanted UACO to help break down the barriers shielding this disease and bring it into the open, but I knew I had to adopt the Ugandan ethos of ‘slowly, slowly’. The most vulnerable group as far as HIV went were teenage girls, many of whom were orphans. They were constantly being invited to the clinic to learn how not to become infected.

  While the AIDS work moved slowly, Tuesdays was the busiest day with mamas bringing their babies in for immunisation. In addition to this, sessions were held teaching about family planning, basic health care, nutrition and AIDS.

  A youth department had developed out of a day originally set aside to deal with men’s health issues, with a regular group of about thirty young men now meeting to learn and to help around the clinic. They wanted to know about HIV/AIDS, safe sexual practices, literacy and how to manage small income-generating projects. They even formed their own soccer team, despite not having uniforms or boots. Florence had begun training them to talk to other young people about AIDS. Edward was covering the cost of the youth activity which included paying for transport so they could play other teams, soft drinks and occasionally paying for a little bit of coaching. I started thinking about ways they could generate income for themselves. The question of how to alleviate poverty is a constant in Uganda and other developing countries. It is almost impossible to overcome health issues if people are living a hand-to-mouth existence.