Suddenly it's pitch black. Not a new occurrence, it happens every night around 8pm or so. Shortly thereafter there is also quiet as the generator shuts down. For some reason, though, it is darker than usual. Like being in a cave, turning off the flashlight and trying to see your hand in front of your face. We sit patiently waiting. Someone lights a match...
But what about the darkness in my soul, the blackness squeezing out any light from my soul?
Death has struck again. If you've wondered where that dark hooded guy with the sickle over his shoulder hangs out in his spare time...it's Béré.
I'm standing on the porch talking to two teenagers. They have come before seeking help with science homework. They've taken us to their church a few Sundays ago. They have come tonight just to talk. It's a Friday night. They wonder if I'll go to Lai tomorrow to see the President of the Republic who'll be there to inaugurate the bridge linking B�r� and Lai. Andre walks up. "Our president is dead." At first, I think he means the President we've just been talking about. He soon clarifies, "the president of our Mission."
I met Pastor Herimanana at an HIV conference last October in Bamenda, Cameroun. A down to earth guy, he had a real heart for the sick and hurting, especially those suffering from HIV/AIDS. At the time, we'd been half a year without a leader of our Mission here in Tchad. I couldn't help but think how cool it'd be if he could come to Tchad. I knew he'd be supportive of our hospital and provide honest, strong leadership. To my happy surprise, a few months ago he was named as the president of the Tchad Mission.
Thursday, he finished his visa paperwork in Yaound� and was on his way to Douala to catch his flight to Tchad when the driver lost control and he was killed on the highway.
Andre kept hitting his hand with his other hand crying out "c'est pas possible, c'est pas possible!" Looking at me he said, "the devil really must hate us here in Tchad." I had to agree.
The darkness descends.
I hear in morning report today that the little Arab boy with the burn on his chest wasn't doing well. His mom "bugged" the night nurse three times to go get the "Nasara" meaning me. We all had a good laugh.
On rounds, Sarah comes up and says the boy is yellow all over...jaundice...and his belly is hard. I'll be to see him in 5-10 minutes when I finish with the other patients.
5 minutes later I hear a small child scream and wail. I look outside. The cute little sister of our young patient is running around, throwing her self on the ground with the most heart-rending cries. A nurse comes to say the boy has died.
He's been with us for weeks. He'd been recovering. He'd come in dehydrated after a month of home treatment for burns on his chest, arms, hands and feet. Friday, he was a chubby, happy baby. His two little sisters are the cutest ever and love to play with Sarah and hang all over their doting dad. He always brings crackers in his pockets where even the littlest one knows to find them before he can even get his ritual Arabic greetings over with.
A large group of brightly clad Arab women in veils cry--sometimes sounding like laughter but one look at the face makes the distinction--and prepare to take away the corpse. The oldest little sister bangs her head on the ground tears streaming down her cheeks as a nurse tries to keep her from hurting herself by placing her head in the absorbent lap of an aunt...
And the baby? Now, he's a cooling body lying on his back, eyes staring into nowhere...into the darkness...
I return to rounds and stare blankly at the floor for awhile. None of the patients or staff says a word. They must wonder what's the problem, people die all the time, it's a part of life...a part I just can't get used to.
A few minutes later, the Financial Manager of our Health District comes in. He pulls me aside to inform me that our newly appointed "Chef" of the infant vaccination program died yesterday of AIDS. Also, Dagal, the nurse in charge of supervision of the health centers on my arrival who'd recently been relocated to Lai, also died of AIDS. Two of our colleagues in the same day. Yeah, I'd had my run-ins with Dagal, but at the same time I'd hear him occasionally mention God as if his life was a tug of war between two warring factions for his life...who knows who won in the end...it would appear the darkness of his reckless lifestyle...but God only knows...
I stumble on, groping, in the darkness...I find a little light, enough to finish rounds and head to the office where a letter awaits me in the hands of Andre.
Rahama has asked for a 5 day leave of absence to take her husband to see one of the more powerful witch doctors in the area for his eye problem. After some discussions with Rahama and Samedi I find myself walking through the dusty streets, past the mud brick houses of Anatole and Samedi, around the corner near the big mango tree, through the hole in the mud wall and onto the mat under the large shade tree in Rahama's courtyard.
Kemkoye invites us to sit. We do. Samedi and I are wearing matching light blue scrubs and Kemkoye has a brightly colored shirt on. His face is an expressionless puzzle. Thinking back, I wonder if I've ever seen anything not approaching a blank stare on that face. I start the conversation.
I tell him I must warn him that not only is he unlikely to find a lasting solution to his problem, but that he is messing with dangerous, and real, forces of darkness. Is it worth it, even to find a little relief? Or as Someone said years ago, to gain the world and lose one's soul? The mask stares past me. The red, cloudy eye pierces into some corner far away. He hedges and bets never changing the expressionless tone of his voice.
He says he can't afford to go to the Ophthalmologist. I offer to have him come with us in two days to N'Djaména...free of charge. Then, I mention having just seen that Doctors Without Borders has some Ophthalmologists in Kousseri, Cameroun, just across the border. I'll take him there personally I say. He doesn't want to be convinced. Samedi says a few words. Half an hour later we leave with him at least "considering it".
At 2pm, I see Rahama. She enters the office, face a storm cloud of darkness. Abruptly, she spurts it all out. He insists on going to the witchdoctor. She must go with him. She rises to go. She says she's at the breaking point of discouragement...her face shows it. She is hopeless. She says I should pray "beaucoup". As the door is about to close behind her she turns and says, "C'est entre vos mains, maintenant" (it's in your hands now) and without a look behind her she heads off into the increasing darkness of a sunny day.
I find myself that afternoon curled up in a ball on my mattress on the floor in the corner of my room. Music coming from the computer across the room tries to soothe my mind...in vain. The pillow is wet...not just sweat this time...but tears flowing from sobs of an uncomprehending soul desperately seeking answers from the one spot he's at least got a few in the past...Tossing and turning, I cry out in the midst of this present darkness...
James
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