The Sunday News
Vusumuzi Dube
AS journalists one of our main goals is to listen to what people say and come up with a good article for the front page of the newspaper, the headline of the evening bulletin or even attract numerous follow-up stories from other media outlets.
The term “scoop” is probably one of the first terms that a journalism student comes across on their first day on attachment, the emphasis being finding a story which has never been published or which the other media outlets do not have.
It is on few occasions that journalists have a first-hand experience in their stories; if ever they do most people dismiss this to be a fib, with the journalist simply trying to panelbeat a story for publication.
Many-a-times I have come across headlines concerning the state of affairs at Bulawayo’s Mpilo Central Hospital, most recently being Bulawayo South legislator Ms Thabitha Khumalo’s sentiments of the ill-treatment she got at the referral centre. Little did I know that one day I would come face to face with this ill-treatment.
Monday 28 April will go down as a day I will never forget, not for good but for bad reasons.
While I began the day on a high note — as it was my mother’s birthday — it was going to end in a sorry state after we had to rush my cousin, Mzwandile Sithole, to the hospital after he had been struck by a sharp object — most likely an axe — on the back of his head by robbers who got away with his $50 cellphone and cash amounting to $10.
As we arrived at the hospital at 8.12pm, after the ambulance crew had done their duty, we rushed the young man to the casualty department, with everyone close by assisting as it was clear that this was not just an ordinary injury as my cousin was experiencing fits.
I will be the first, however, to thank the doctor and nurses on duty as they did their part to the core.
However, I was to get the worst form of ill-treatment at the administrative department. As we wheeled our patient to the ward, I was instructed to go to the front desk and get a treatment card for them to be able to attend to my cousin.
With the doctor advising us that this was an emergency that required him to set aside all his other appointments, the smartly dressed gentleman at the front desk who appeared to be bored by his job immediately barked at us to join the queue as he was attending to other clients, this despite the fact that those in the queue had allowed us to pass noting the state my cousin was in.
“Who do you think you are? Just join the queue and wait for your turn!” he said.
Frustrated as I was, I obediently joined the queue as my cousin’s condition slowly deteriorated and the doctor could not do anything without the hospital card.
“Can I have the patient’s date of birth,” said the gentleman when my turn came, before even asking for his first name.
“I am sorry my brother I don’t know his date of birth but he is my cousin, the doctor urgently needs that card so that he treats him. He can’t talk as he is almost unconscious, he will give us his date of birth once he wakes up,” I replied.
Little did I know that I was about to get the shock of my life.
“I’m sorry I cannot do anything without the date of birth. We need that date of birth for him to be attended to . . . I am just in administration and I follow procedure. I am not the doctor or the nurse so here you do as I want if you want things to go your way. So right now find the date of birth and then I will tell the personnel to treat him,” said the man, who was not even concentrating on what I was saying and did not realise the magnitude of the matter.
This was to be the beginning of an amost hour-long quarrel with the “admin man” refusing to budge. So arrogant was he that I even wondered how many people die because of this man; not because he failed to administer medication but because of the delays he causes at his small steel bar-supported window. All he seemed to be good at was warming his hands on the century-old heater that was stuck under his desk.
It was only after the intervention of one of the nurses that he finally did what he was supposed to do more than an hour ago, just endorsing a date stamp on a plain piece of paper.
My horror was, however, far from being over, as after the doctor was done attending to my cousin, I once again had to endure the clerk’s escapades after the doctor requested that I get an admission form from another office.
At the admission office I was told that I had to go to the gentleman (who I now admittedly feared) to get a hospital number.
He refused to attend to me.
A lady clerk fortunately came to my rescue and processed my papers.
“Are we saying that since you don’t know the date of birth of your cousin, he now should not be treated,” she said, while shaking her head in clear fustration.
Tired after this harassment, I retired to the nearest bench. That is when everything was unravelled to me.
“Mntanami ungavumi umdala lo ekungena ekhanda thina sesakujwayela, vele unje, kanaki ukuthi usebenza izigulane (My child don’t allow this man to get into your head, some of us have got used to him, he is just like this, he does not realise that he is dealing with sick people here),” said an elderly lady, who identified herself as MaMoyo.
It was then that my journalism genes took over, asking anyone who cared to entertain me how this gentleman had treated them.
“I saw the way he treated you, he does not deserve to be behind that window, every time I come here he is always shouting at people. I even wonder how he has spent all this time because my thinking was that any sane organisation would have long got rid of him.
“Last week when I came with my brother, we had to go back home because he did not want him to be admitted to the hospital. Something has to be done as a matter of urgency,” said a Mr Moses Ndlovu.
As I sat stressed about the well-being of my cousin a question struck me; how many people die before they even get attended to by the nurses and doctors? For long we have laid the blame on the nurses and doctors but I will be the first to say their service is superb, judging from the way they handled my cousin’s case. The administration side, however, leaves a lot to be desired.
After arriving at the hospital at 8.12pm I finally left at 3.23am, more than seven hours later.
