I stand rejected (Irene's advice)

Irene’s Advice I remember the day Amina was brought to St. Theresa Centre for women with Vesico Vagina Fistula (VVF), she was yet another child with the condition, a health issue that was becoming worrisome in the Northern part of Nigeria where I was posted by my mission. In my ten years at the centre as a carer, I had seen children as young as eight years being brought in complicated health states while in labour. Many of them did not make it alive and those who manage to survive the ordeal during childbirth normally lost the babies and became damaged internally. They were always blamed for their inability to deliver irrespective of the fact that most of them were still children not yet ripe for womanhood. They were brought to the centre and abandoned at the centre where they were regarded as being cursed for their sins. It was not amusing when I learnt the sobriquet given to the centre. Amina was among the physically damaged young wives that were left psychologically terrorized about ever being the same again. A woman who claimed to be her mother brought her to the centre and refused to come inside the dormitory to see the corner her assumed daughter was being assigned to. She was like all of them; the women that accompanied the victims to the centre, they always stopped at the entrance and waited for the attendants to take over. Many of the women brought to the centre were not literate enough to give information about themselves and most times, their relations that bring them were not equally helpful. Amina was an exception; she supplied her details so sharply that I took notice of her. At first, she was depressed and always kept to herself. It was one of the usual stages VVF patients pass through; coping with understanding that they could no longer control themselves when they urinated or excreted. These were things they had taken for granted but realizing their inability to control easing themselves is always hallucinating. Amina was always crying each time I came to talk with her initially so I gave her time to come out of the self pity stage. She gradually started talking with the auxiliary nurses employed at the centre. They reported to me that she longed to go to school. I was surprised that was what she was missing, majority of them were more worried about not being able to deliver again or concerned about not having the chance to go back to their husbands again. She was a rare case and got my interest. I approached her. “Hello Amina, I am Sister Irene and I want to be your friend,” I started, knowing how difficult it was for them to get through to women in that state especially, considering the fact that I was a white woman and a Catholic Nun. “I will like to teach you sometimes if you want me to,” I offered. I saw the spark of interest in her eyes as she sat on the mat at her corner. Her small bag was kept neatly beside her with her few clothes neatly folded on top of it. Two days after my reach out, Amina came to the door of my office knocking. “Can I help you young lady?” I asked feigning being a bit busy; I wanted to test her zeal to learn. “I want to start learning,” she replied. Her session started right there in my office and with time, the tutorial classes started having students almost the number as we had on the vocational training unit where we taught the women how to make products like soap, detergents and crafts like knitting, sewing and bead making which they secretly took to the market to sell without the public knowing where the products came from. I found out that Amina was so brilliant that I appointed her to start teaching the other women the basic education skills of reading and writing the English alphabets and Arabic figures. She did a good job in that department. Our interaction during classes broke the barrier between us and she discussed freely with me. I cannot forget the day she requested for explanation on what the illness they all had in common. “It is a condition that arises from obstetric complications,” I defined. “I want you to explain with small words I can understand,” she pleaded. “It is a condition influenced by delayed and obstructed labour when there is prolonged and unrelieved pressure on a woman’s pelvis. It causes a rupture in the bladder,” I explained in plain terms but could still see the confusion on her young face. “Why couldn’t I bear a child?” She asked. That was the first time she made reference to child birth. “My dear, your body is not fully developed for what you went through. That is the major cause of VVF,” I made her understand. “It was painful,” she said. I saw tears in her eyes; they always cried when they went down their memory lane of pain, agony and rejection. “I tried all my best,” she continued, “I was made to squat on my hands and knees yet the baby wouldn’t come out,” she went on, “the pain became unbearable, I thought I was dead.” She was sobbing at that point. I remained seated watching her grief; it was a helpful therapy for them to share their experiences and come to terms with their conditions. “I wanted to bear him a son so I could go back to school and see Aisha, but now I cannot be a woman again. I am cursed,” she cried. “You are blessed Amina,” I consoled her, “the good Mother will make you whole again.” The young lady kept mentioning Aisha, her long lost friend each time we had our discussions which had become frequent. “She promised to always be my friend,” she kept emphasizing. On many occasions she would end up crying after reminiscing their times together and the promise of Aisha’s mother registering her in school with her daughter. I felt for her at such moments and could see her love to receive an education. I prayed fervently for her. I was surprised and happy for her when one afternoon during the Harmattan season, a pretty young girl appeared and was looking for Amina. I later learnt she was the much talked about Aisha and felt something in me that she would affect Amina’s situation. I had the feeling that Amina’s condition would change and Aisha would be a part of the process. I watched them from the window of my office when they sat down under the tree discussing; Amina was withdrawn and looked away most of the time while Aisha had that look that had a thousand questions begging for answers. I observed the love that existed between the erstwhile friends before fate tore them apart. When they both cried and embraced each other under the tree that hot afternoon, I shed tears in my office while holding my chaplet. I said a Rosary for the two friends that they find happiness again between them. Aisha became a regular visitor to the centre and even helped Amina in her teaching classes. When she was introduced to me formally, she looked at me in a manner that was more inquisitive than admiring. I knew instantly she would come to me for answers to the many questions she could not get from her friend. The day she came, I was prepared to help. Amina was asleep and I informed her at the entrance of the dormitory when she arrived. “I will go wake her if you don’t mind,” I offered but she protested that I allow her rest. “Actually I have wanted to talk to you,” she said. “Let’s go to my office then,” I directed. “What is wrong with Amina and how can I help?” She asked. “She has a damaged bladder as a result of her being unable to deliver a child,” I stated bluntly; I had the habit of always introducing my explanations with the harshest of words, I found it got the person to grasp the explanation. Aisha was no exception and her eyes widened in confusion, fear and concern. I took out my anatomy diagrams that I always used to explain the man-made epidemic that was gradually reducing many of the young girls in Northern Nigeria to ruin. “During childbirth, the baby’s head is unable to pass through the bony pelvis because it is still that of a child and not a woman, due to the inability, damage is done to the soft tissues of the vagina creating a false passage which causes urinary incontinence which, simply put, means she no longer has control of herself when she passes urine. That is what Amina’s parents, her husband and maybe, the alleged religious directive leaves her with,” I finished. Tears were running down her cheeks when I was through. “Has she been like these all these years?” She asked. I nodded, “we have a lot of girls whose sins are enormously messy that they have to be abandoned virtually.” “Nobody comes to help?” “As far as they are concerned, the farther they remain away from them, the better for their peaceful lives. Nobody wants to have a foul smelling woman in their house,” I replied. I watched her shoulders shaking as she cried. “My dear, crying cannot help the situation here,” I advised sharply. She looked up. “What can help?” She threw back at me with exasperation. “She can be cured through a special surgery,” I revealed. I saw hope lighten in her eyes before she asked the question I had been waiting for years. “How can I help?” “Vaginal Fistulae can be repaired through orthodox surgical correction but the hope of success is dependent on the extent of damage,” I explained. “Do you know how...?” Her voice trailed as she looked inquiringly at me. I understood her fears and shook my head, “ I am not a doctor and they are the only ones that can determine that and help Amina,” I told her. “Where are the doctors?” She asked. I stared at her for a few seconds and looked away; I saw her eyes dimming. “They are not here in Nigeria,” I informed her. I turned to see her mouth drop. “They are in Addis Ababa in Ethiopia,” I said. Aisha was at loss. “They cannot come here if the people will not stop this practice of marrying girls away at an inappropriate age.” “What can we do?” She asked gently. I saw the fire in her eyes and knew instantly I had found another accomplice. “We have to organize an awareness campaign, a protest and make the government intervene,” I opened up. “How?” She asked. I went close to her and explained in a whisper, “The doctors will work only with the Governor’s permission and we cannot get the government to come in without first convincing the people here to allow the treatment otherwise, they would attack the doctors.” “Why will they attack the doctors?” “They see the girls as cursed and will want them to be where they are. If the doctors treat them and they get well, they would return home and contaminate the others. That is what they believe and besides, we will need government to fund the surgeries. We will need their hospitals,” I explained further. “How can we get the Governor on our side?” Aisha asked. That was the ideal moment to let her into the plan. “I have a friend who wants to help,” I revealed. Aisha’s eyes opened widely in excitement. “Her name is Safinatu and she is a journalist and works at Radio Zaria. We have a plot but we need a third person to be the voice.” “How can someone be the voice?” She asked. “I will inform Safinatu to come on Friday so that we can all discuss on the plan,” I said. She nodded