The children I had met in the school were always utterly delighted to see me. If truth be told it was a tremendous ego boost as well as being wonderfully charming. I love going there as never before has my arrival anywhere been so warmly welcome. They all wanted to hold my hand and show me the work they were proud of. They made me smile, I made them smile – it was a match made in heaven. This is how it should always be I decided and I assumed that all kids in Paga would have a similar reaction.
And then I started working in the clinic. Very quickly it became blatantly clear to me that there is nothing scarier to a local baby or very young child than a white man. Not that I am remotely white. At this stage I am like a swatch sample ranging from various bright pinks to shocking reds on account of the relentless Ghanaian sun.
When these kids lay eyes on me they begin roaring – and no amount of funny faces, smiles or encouraging laughing will deter their mission to raise all hell through the use of their tiny but powerful lungs.
And that’s before they realise that I am about to come at them with a sharp needle that will make them bleed. In fact it didn’t take them long to figure out that my only intention was to draw their blood. I have no doubt that there are countless young Ghanaians who now have nightmares of the scary white monster and his vicious weapon.
The very worst cases are the slightly older children who are all smiles at the novelty of meeting me before monitoring closely my movements and quickly working out the destiny that awaits their tiny quivering finger. Their expression instantly turns to one of brutal betrayal. And let me make it perfectly clear that the very last thing I ever want to do in life is hurt the poor wee defenseless kids. It kills me to take out the lancet and jab it into their fingers as streams of tears begin to flow. Some don’t just cry – they roar like no living creature has ever roared before, as if in utter deadly terror. When this happens I feel like rushing around to everyone in the clinic to convince them that I did not come here to torture their children. Little boys are the worst I must admit. Most of them are ridiculous cowards and begin sobbing before they even sit down. Each morning I went to work hoping that I wouldn’t have too many children to test and each evening I attempted to erase the trauma their reactions caused in me.
And then one day a mother and her very young son came in, him sleeping soundly in her arms. As always when I see a parent and child I say a quick prayer that it is only the adult that needs testing. But this time no one answered my pleading and the victim, ahem, patient was the tiny boy. I swabbed his finger while he still slept, took out my needle and as always performed the ordeal as quickly as I could. I braced myself for the piercing screams that would follow and was indeed deafened – by silence. Not a budge from the sleepy soul. He hadn’t even woken up.
From that moment on my sympathy for these kids has diminished dramatically. Virtually Painless the box of lancets proudly displays and I am now inclined to believe it. If it doesn’t even wake a sleeping boy how bad can it really be?
That notwithstanding I have resorted to bribery. When I have completed the procedure and the sobbing is in full swing I now whip out a lollipop or a biscuit. And sometimes, just sometimes the crying stops, they tilt their heads and you can almost imagine their little minds trying to deliberate whether I am really Child’s Enemy No. 1 or just occasionally sadistic.
More often than not however they grab the sweets, and without dipping a single decibel continue their vocal protest and throw me a devastating look of disgust before leaving my room with a drop less of blood and a fist full of candy.
Conortje 