Lydia's Literacy Class

Wednesday February 12, 2014 

Lydia's Literacy Class

Just before we traveled home for a visit in November, the women of Kainga had asked me to help them with their Chichewa literacy class. I told them that we would love to be involved in their literacy class. Of course, there was a long interval between the time we were asked to help and the beginning of our new sessions of classes in January, and they may have thought we forgot, but that wasn't the case. We wanted whatever we gave them to be practical, versatile and durable. 

We described what we had in mind and gave specific measurements to a young carpenter, Jeremiah, who helped us acquire materials necessary to build two easels which would double as a chart paper stand and a blackboard. There is no Home Depot, so acquiring the materials was not as easy as it may sound. 

First, George drove Jeremiah out to a market in Chinimwale where men were milling logs  by hand into what is locally called  "timbers." It is always fascinating to watch as two men with a long logger's saw cut with precision a large section of tree trunk into long boards.  We found the chalkboard paint, the clear varnish and brushes in a little hardware shop called Mechno's. The chain and hinges to support the easel came from a little booth inside the market, and we found the chalk in at a little copy shop  by the bus depot in downtown Zomba. When all the materials were finally collected, Jeremiah started the  project. 

While the work was in progress, George and and I drove out to Kainga to get a first hand look at the program.  When we arrived, the women were sitting on the bare ground among a cluster of homes just by the mosque. 

A woman named Lydia, the teacher, sat with a semicircle of about a dozen women clustered closely around her.  She was teaching them the names of vowels and their sounds. Some of the women had scraps of pages from an old notepad, and others had small paperback booklets, each with about 10 pages. Some of the women had no materials at all, and I watched as other women in the group tore their notebooks in half to share with their friends. Their pencils were all just well worn stubs. 

Lydia had cut the top and bottom out of a large tin can, old and brown with rust. Then she cut down the length one side to make a flat writing surface. She laid it in the circle of women and was using a piece of charred wood to write the vowels for her students to copy. 

One of the women proudly showed me a page of vowels in her notebook, saying, "This is my first writing," and of course, I commended  her for her work. Obviously, these women were making a great effort to be resourceful, although they had almost no resources. 

As I was observing this class, my mind went back to some of the well furnished classrooms in which I have taught over the years. I thought about how readily available materials for teaching and learning are in the developed world and how they are generally taken completely for granted.

Our visit to this class made it very clear that any help we could give would be valued and very much appreciated. George and I knew that we wanted to do more to encourage the women to continue learning. So, on our very next visit, we gave each woman a notebook and pen. 

I am happy to say the easels are finally built, and today Jeremiah primed and  varnished them. He will come back tomorrow to apply the blackboard paint, and after they dry, they will be ready! We are really looking forward to presenting Lydia with the easel, chalk, and chart paper when we return to the village on Saturday. 

Our desire is to bless these women and encourage them to continue learning and that God will use these gifts to help us build closer relationships in the community as He prepares them to receive the Gospel. 

Baby Obed of Muima

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

We were scheduled to conduct a Changu Changu Moto cookstove workshop this afternoon in the village of Muima.  When she heard our truck coming, Chief Bernadette came out to the road to let us know that many of the women in my class were gone to a funeral in a neighboring village, so it would probably be best to reschedule. We agreed and set up a date two weeks from today.

On our last visit, Chief Bernadette's infant son, Obed, had malaria and was sick with a fever. So, today I asked her if his health had improved. She said it had not.  When we asked if she had taken him to the clinic, she said she had, but the Bimbi clinic, about 1 km from her village, didn't have any infant malaria medicine. 

Then, she walked on to another clinic, one much farther away, but they didn't have the medication either. So,she explained, the child has been sick with malaria for weeks. When I observed more closely, it was obvious that his skin was covered in rash, and his eyes looked weak, and even more seriously, he had not been growing. How tragic that the child was failing to thrive and could have died for lack of a medication that costs under $1.00 US. 

George and I caught each other's eye, and it was clear to both of us what we were supposed to do. "Would you like for us to take you and Obed to a private clinic?" Her eyes brightened as she said yes.

She quickly walked the short distance to her house to retrieve a bag of baby necessities, and soon we were on our way. Little Obed fretted some as the truck rocked and jolted down the road, but after the road smoothed a bit, Bernadette was able to nurse him, and  he was comforted enough to rest. 

I noticed that every few minutes a deep, rattling cough shook Bernadette, so I asked if she had any medical concerns for herself. She told us she was concerned about the cough. 

Although there were several people in the waiting room when we arrived,  the receptionist took Bernadette and the baby's information quickly and put them in the cue to see the doctor. Within 15 minutes or so, Bernadette was called to the examination room. In short order, we could hear little Obed crying in pain. As we learned later, he needed three shots to get him caught up on childhood immunizations. When they emerged from the exam room, Bernadette was holding two bulging bags of prescriptions, including the baby's malaria medications. 

When we returned Bernadette to her village,  many women were there to receive her and very happy for her safe return. Bernadette thanked us, and several women rushed to shake our hands and express their gratitude for our caring for their chief. 

When George paid the bill for all the medical care and  prescriptions, the  total was 3700 kwacha or $8.85 US for both of them. The goodwill we are now experiencing in Muima and other villages, however,  is priceless. We pray that God will use it to open many hearts to receive His kingdom.

   

Asiya

Asiya  

Asiya has always been so happy to see us, always smiling and reaching to me for a hug, but this day was different. As I was taking attendance in Kainga women's class this morning, Asiya approached me, eyes and head  lowered, looking down to the side. There was no smile so I knew something was terribly wrong. 

Then I noticed the pain in her eyes as she slowly pulled her hand from under a ragged cloth. One of her fingers was swollen double its normal size and the fingertip was an angry pink and red mottled white and oozing infection. I asked if I could pray for her. She immediately dropped to her knees.  I joined her there, asking God to bring healing and for Him to reveal His love to her. 

Before I continued my lesson, I promised her that after our work was finished in the villages, we would come by to take her to a private hospital near Machinga. We learned that her mother also has an infection on her hand, but she was not willing to go with us and would not accept medical treatment. Prayer and medical treatment was the best offer we had, so although we wanted to help her, we let the decision rest with her mother.  

About an hour and a half later we pulled into a yard near Asiya's house and learned that she was at home resting. Her neighbor, Chrissy,  and I went to get her and walked her to the truck. Chrissy asked if she could accompany her.  We told her to jump in, and we were on our way.

Especially this time of year, during the rainy season, the roads are a series of deep ruts and deep, mud-filled potholes interspersed with craggy rocks. So, as the truck jolted and swayed, Asiya lifted her wounded hand in the air to minimize the impact to her throbbing finger. 

We would have under no circumstances taken her to a public clinic or hospital, and the doctor George and I see at a private clinic here  in Zomba is not in his office on weekends. So, we were happy that Samuel knew of a private clinic, one sponsored by the Anglican Church, which he could recommend. It was some distance away, near Machinga, but we were committed to the best care we could get for Asiya because she was running a fever and it was obvious that her infection was very serious. 

When we arrived, the hospital campus was dark and looked deserted, so we sent Samuel ahead of us to find admissions. He came back in a few minutes and led us to the women's ward. One ward lined with beds was labeled Chronic Infections. At least a dozen women were there, but there was no one, however, at the front desk. So we waited. 

Eventually, a nurse came and leafed through Asiya's medical book.  She had not seen a doctor since 2008. The nurse told us to sit down and wait because the doctor had been paged and was with another patient at the time. 

Asiya was walked to a room with an examination table, and soon, an intern came by with a pain killer and gave her a shot in the hip. This took some of the edge off the pain,  enough for her to close her eyes and rest a bit.

Then, we sat and waited. We walked the campus and waited. Eventually, a robust looking young Malawian dressed in tan cargo shorts, sandals, and a red Emirates soccer team shirt, entered, greeted us briefly in passing, then went directly to Asiya's examination room. He lifted his hands and grabbed the bar that held the curtain, and leaned toward the bed to ask her a few questions. Who could this be? It was the doctor. He came with a small entourage of attendants and interns.  I followed them in to be with her during the procedure. 

The doctor must have skipped hand washing class in medical school,  because he swiped on a pair of latex gloves and proceeded to examine Asiya's finger. 

First, he wet swabbed her entire hand with mercurochrome and gave her a shot in that finger. She winced a little when the doctor began to poke and prod at it a bit, so he gave her another shot in her finger.

 Without so much as a small interval, he slid a bowl under her hand, took a lance from a small paper package, lanced her finger, and began to squeeze. He extracted some of the poison, but evidently not enough. He made a bigger incision, then again squeezed. As her brow tightened and the pain overwhelmed her, the brimming pools beneath her eyelids overflowed and poured down her face. 

Although she did not make so much as a small whimper,  she was obviously in deep pain, so I quickly crossed the room and took her other hand in mine and held her. She leaned in, placing her head on my shoulder. By this time, tears were  flowing down my cheeks as well. Within minutes, the surgery was over, and the doctor was tying on a strip of gauze bandage.  The doctor unrolled another strip of gauze, wrapped it around her neck and wrist to create a sort of sling to help immobilize her hand. 

We were asked to wait again at the nurse's station for the accountant to arrive so we could pay the hospital bill. Within 20 minutes or so, he arrived, looked over the doctor's notes in Asiya's medical book and asked us to follow him to his office. There he banged out a few numbers on a calculator. Totaling the charges, including medications, doctor's consultation, surgery, and prescriptions for both Asiya and her mother, the bill came to a grand total of 4700 kwacha, which is $11.24 US. 

With receipt in hand,  we were directed to the dispensary in an adjacent building. He assured us that the pharmacist would be coming, then snap, click, he locked his door and left. From the accountants office we could see that the dispensary door was gated and padlocked, so we asked Samuel ( thank God for Samuel) to go to the nurses station again and ask her to send for the pharmacist. In a short while, he returned with the news that the pharmacist was at home and was gone for the day. That answer was not acceptable  because the sun was already low in the sky, and we knew that there was no possibility of getting the needed medications that evening in Zomba. We also knew we were not willing to take her home without the pain medication and the antibiotic. We asked again, and the nurse said she would call the pharmacist back to work. Chrissy and I sat with Asiya, weary from lack of sleep and food as well as all the trauma she had been through in the past hours, sat on a wooden bench outside the dispensary and waited. And waited. Half an hour later, George went to check the status and learned that the pharmacist had arrived and was on his way.  We know that "on his way" is a relative term, but within five minutes we had what we came for and were on our way back to the village.  

We only stopped long enough to purchase food for us all. John ran with 1000 kwacha and came back with a bag of yeast rolls and bags of salted peanuts for us all. We were hoping to get our friends back to Kainga to get Asiya settled in and us back to the paved road before dark. We knew that might be a challenge because we only had about 45 minutes before  the sun was completely down when it began to rain. At a dip in the road where rainwater streamed across, the truck's back tires began to slide toward a flooded ditch and some young girls standing nearby. George, being the skilled driver he is, was able to right it and to avoid what would have been a disaster.  

With about 20 minutes of daylight to spare, we pulled into Kainga. What a sight!  Many of the women and children lined road at the entrance to the village, smiling and waving. They were so happy and sincerely expressed their grateful hearts. 

Asiya and her village know we love them and care about their needs. I once told them that the love I feel for them is so much bigger than me. In fact, the love is so big that it floods me and must overflow, so I am certain that it must be God's love. 

That morning, I had been praying that God would use us to show His love.  Well, on this wonderful day devoted to serving the lowest, this is the way He chose to do it.