Malaria shouldn't be a death sentence

My first day back in the village was off to a beautiful start!

I woke up early, as usual. I pulled on my teal knee-length skirt and solid black shirt and walked out the door, sliding on my Keens from the veranda.

God had painted me a beautiful "welcome back" greeting in the form of a gorgeous purple and orange sunrise that backlit the trees on the horizon in front of me.

We attended Morning Glory at 6 a.m. where community and staff members gather in the church to pray over the coming day. To hear multiple voices lifted high in the prayers of local languages intervening on behalf of their community was not only encouraging for my spirit but also a wonderful, melodious sound. 

After about about hour, they had begun to trickle out to work, to their gardens, to school, but not before greeting me with a hug.

I picked up my bible and journal, packed them into my backpack and headed to Empowered Leaders Academy, Empower A Child's primary school in the village.

Immediately, a P7 boy I had met years ago, Marvin, called across the yard, "Welcome back, Auntie Cassie!" A smile stretched from ear to ear on both of our faces, as I exclaimed, "Webale, Marvin! Vudeyo!"

("Thank you! I am back!" In Ugandan culture, someone usually welcomes you back, no matter if you just went to the shop around the corner or if you've been gone for 2 years. Then the proper response is to reaffirm that you are, in fact, back.)

After greeting a few other familiar faces and meeting some new ones, I went to Mamma Luke's house. The boys saw me first and were shocked that I was actually there! They went and got Mamma and she came running with a giant smile on her face, hugging and kissing me! Jennifer even recognized me and Grace was her normal shy self. It was so great to see them again! Oh, how I've missed them!

I served porridge and talked to all the children at the school for a few hours at the school, then went back to the guest quarters to eat. 

Just a little while later, a boy from middle class came into the compound sobbing. He was complaining of a bad headache and body aches. He looked drained and barely able to stand up. I touched his head and his skin was on fire. But he was shivering like it was 30 degrees outside. After trying to see if he was experiencing any other symptoms, we decided to at least get some Tylenol in his body to reduce the pain and fever. He just stared at the cup of water for a few minutes, though. Just as I was about to ask what was wrong, he lunged forward and vomited repeatedly. 

All those symptoms could only mean one thing here in Uganda: malaria.

Malaria is both seen as something as common as a cold or flu in America, but then also treated almost as if it's a swear word.

Because clinics are usually at least an hour's walk away, are ill-equipped to handle most ailments due to lack of knowledge, staff, and resources, or are unaffordable to a family that makes and lives on less than a dollar a day, malaria (like most other medical needs) often goes untreated. 

The problem with malaria is that it doesn't really go away. If you catch it early, you can almost completely snuff it out and manage it easily for the rest of your life. But most people here, cannot catch it early. It runs rampant through their body and implants itself in them. From then on, a flare up can occur at any time and can be severe enough to dehydrate them and, horribly enough, basically cook their brains due to the severity of the fevers. 

Malaria, a disease not even on the minds of Americans, can easily become a kiss of death here. 

I know this might seem like an abrupt change to you guys reading this to go from telling of such joy to a story of such sorrow, but, unfortunately, that is life here in Uganda.

Joy and sorrow can come in the same day, often in the same hour in the hardships of village life. 

For hours, I sat with Mukissa on a foam mattress that we had pulled outside where the air was flowing, as he laid his head in my lap. His fever didn't even seem to be phased by the possibly too strong for his size dose of Tylenol we had given him. He got up a few more times to go to the nearest bush to vomit. His body was so hot that just the heat from his head in my lap was causing a pool of sweat on my skirt- and I'm almost positive it was my sweat, not his. We submerged a shirt in water to put on his head and chest to try to cool him down externally. This also didn't seem to be working. 

I asked if we should call his parents and let them know and see if our local clinic, an hour's walk away, would be any option. The answer my translator gave was straight to the point, "He doesn't have." Then he walked away.

Another crushing blow to my spirit. 

This maybe 6-year-old boy had no mamma to love on him. Not when he had good news, like a passed exam. Not when he felt terrible, like a debilitating bout of malaria. Not ever since his father left his mother. Then she saw Mukissa as the cause of him leaving, which made her son cursed in her eyes. So, she left him to fend for himself and rid herself of the curse. 

He was seeking shelter in abandoned huts. He was scrounging for food in trash piles. He was taken to the police station multiple times for trespassing and stealing. 

Empower A Child found out and put him in school. They found a local mamma to essentially foster him temporarily until a solution can be reached.

I pulled him a little closer into my lap.

Everyone deserves to feel loved. 

As he grabbed my arm and pulled it across his body, wrapping himself in a hug and holding my hand, my tattoo was suddenly visible. He slowly traced it with his finger. 

Unsure if he could read it, I read it for him.

"'Kwagala.' Kwagala nyo." (I love you. I love you so much.)

He smiled for the first time all day and immediately shut his eyes and fell asleep, still unable to look peaceful because his body was shivering. 

I wept.

For a long time. 

Suddenly, my seemingly silly tattoo had done what I had envisioned it doing: being a conversation piece to remind someone that they are loved.

A few more hours of sleep and a dose of some donated anti-malarial medication later, and his fever finally seemed to be breaking. He was able to sit up and eat some food. He even smiled a few times as he sat beside me, watching the Sunday School Children's Choir practice their song and dance for service. 

As the sun was setting, I pulled him onto my back and started the walk back to his temporary home in Kawanda (a thirty minutes journey each way). 

On the way, I couldn't help but think about my friend, Unice.

A year ago this month, I received a call that he had lost his fight with malaria. I met Unice here in 2012, when he was the driver of the van for Empower A Child. He quickly became my best friend. Within days of knowing him, I could tell him anything and he did the same with me. We shared our challenges and our triumphs. He was a serious voice of reason and a laugh, whenever I need either. For the five months I was here, our friendship strengthened daily. He brought me to the airport when I left and cried when he hugged me goodbye.

I didn't know it would be the last time I saw him. 

Unice called me about once a week, often around 1 a.m., when he was on his way to work, or lunchtime, when he was on his way home. It was crazy, due to the time difference and I couldn't always pick his calls and he knew that since I was at work or asleep half the time. But that never stopped him from trying. If I couldn't answer, I'd call back when I could a few hours later. 

The last time I spoke with him, I was in Colorado visiting my friend Sarah. I hadn't seen her in months so I debated answering the call, but, ultimately, I answered it. 

He told me he was actually reading the bible I bought him years ago and was attending a local Christian church- both answered prayers of mine for this devout Muslim man! He said he understood now that Jesus loves him and he loves Jesus. 

Sitting in Sarah's car in front of a coffee shop, I cried.

For years, I prayed for Jesus to be revealed to Unice in a new way. We agreed on everything except our religions. He thought Christianity was silly but couldn't tell me why he thought that.

That day, though, he sounded different. He was usually a happy man, but he sounded joyful and hopeful now. 

He told me he was trying to be a better dad to his daughter and he fought to see her the previous week and was already fighting to see her again soon. (The mother took her away to a far off village and used her to get what she wanted from Unice, like money, but never followed through with letting him see her.) 

He said he had to go because he was going to a transitional church service for those who were previously Muslims so they could learn more about Jesus. He told me about all the new Christian friends he had that were helping him and thanked me for the bible and for talking to him about Jesus.

Sarah and I thanked God for the answered prayers and went home.

A few weeks passed and Unice didn't call. I assumed he just got busy with church and his new friends there, two jobs, and his daughter. 

Then his number appeared on my phone. I answered, "Unice!" but the voice that said, "Cassie?" wasn't his.

The man identified himself as Unice's brother and I knew something was wrong. His brother lived up country. It was an entire day's journey to get to him. 

"So this is Wilson Cassie?" 

I said it was. 

"Unice has died of malaria yesterday. He asked for me to tell you, if it happened, and I just picked his phone from the house. My airtime is up. I'm sorry."

And he was gone.

I didn't know what to do. 

I was at work and I went to the corner and cried. I told my co-worker from Cameroon and she hugged me because she also knows too well how it feels to lose people from malaria.

I called my friends in Uganda and they called around to his village and confirmed that it was true.

Just like that, something that is non-existant in America had taken my friend.

Friday night, as I walked home with Mukissa, I realized that, earlier, we were literally sitting in front of a building that Empower A Child is making into a medical center. There was a lot of irony in that, for me. Given the right finances and political permits, people like Mukissa could go there when the clinic opens in a matter of months and be treated by knowledgeable staff with exceptional equipment and medication, for affordable, minimal fees. 

Suddenly, my heart is touched for those in need of medical attention here and in the surrounding villages. This facility will be able to accommodate locals from multiple villages in every direction. 

This community needs quality medical care!

They don't even have statistics on how many die from malaria because it's so common, especially in the remote villages. 

These people should not have a disease essentially nonexistent in most countries, killing so many of them.

This is my call to action for you, as a reader.

Join me in praying for the completion of the Empowered Community Health Centre Eddwaliro. Pray for the finances to complete it, the equipment to stock it, the staff and personnel to run it, and the government approval to open it.

If you can help in any of those ways, or any others that I didn't mention, please let me know. I will get you connected to the correct people. 

Let's make this big dream a reality.

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I wrote this blog on Friday, as it was all happening. Mukissa came running to me Sunday with a smile on his face and his fever completely gone- another answered prayer! He's back to a happy, playful child that wants to sit in my lap or tickle me and run away, hoping I'll chase after him. 

Since then, I have seen five other young children at school with tears running down their faces or curled up under the trees shaking and trying to sleep, their friends all answering me with the same diagnosis: malaria. 

For every one, like Mukissa, who gets better, there will be one, like Unice, who doesn't. This vicious cycle will continue until proper medical care and education are available to all of these people.