A Touch of Madness by Nuzhat Shahzadi

Not sure why I thought about Philip lately. Telepathy? ESP? Sixth sense? Something kept prompting me to contact him.

This story is about Philip. Once upon a time we both lived in a far, far away-land, almost elsewhere . . . end of nowhere––extremely isolated from the modern-world, enclosed by deep, deep waters of the Pacific Ocean.

In 2011, Phillip worked as an M&E consultant in Kiribati, contracted by UNFPA. He reported to me as I was heading the UNICEF/UN Joint Presence Office (UNJP). His direct supervisor was based in Fiji/Suva––the Pacific sub-regional UNFPA office, 1500 KM away.

Initially, I lodged at the Utererie-Motel in Ambo Village–– before moving into my Bungalow––was getting to know the development-partners, officials. A noon meeting was arranged with Philip at Utererie as it was easier for him to meet me there.

Phillip arrived on the dot––a tall, lanky young man carrying a large green-coconut in one hand, wearing an endearing, frank smile.

“Mauri, welcome to Tarawa,” he said. Never in my life, ever, anyone came to a meeting with a coconut! But those were my earliest days in the island-country. Strangest things happened . . .

Philip was from Uganda. I have supported UNICEF-Uganda during my ESARO days. My love for Uganda cemented our friendship from day 1.

Philip and I communicated regularly. My admiration for him grew stronger––the partners spoke highly about him, his work. He was training the entire staff of the Ministry of Finance and Economic Development.

He was also loved for his easy-going, humble and generous personality–– the just fit for Kiribati-culture.

. . . It was a late Friday afternoon. Most staff had gone home. Joao, our child protection officer burst into my office.

“Philip is very sick––needs to go to the hospital.” I sensed the urgency.

I advised Joao to pick up Phillip. The only hospital in Tarawa didn’t have any ambulance service. Phillip’s village wasn’t too far but on the broken road the travel could mean an hour.

I drove directly to the hospital in my tiny Toyota. Dr Andre, WHO, incidentally was on travel.

The hospital ambience was sort of lazy-slumbery. The weekend mood had set in. I spoke with the duty nurse––prepared her for Phillip’s arrival.

“Hope the X-ray machine is working?” A hope against hope. The only X-ray machine constantly broke down.

“We will see, Nuzhat. It hasn’t been used recently.” Her calmness was maddening.

Phillip arrived. He was in excruciating pain, had breathing distress.

Nawerewere Hospital

At this point, Dr Carlos, one of the Cuban doctors, breezed in. Phillip was diagnosed with Pneumothorax. His left lung had collapsed. Luckily Joao, was multi lingual, interpreted Dr Carlos’ Spanish (he didn’t speak English).

Phillip needed an immediate surgery. Dr Kabiri, the only surgeon on the island wasn’t responding on his cell phone––phones usually didn’t work.

“He has gone fishing––out in the ocean,” the nurse informed.

Hospital ward

“Joao, take your car––go to Beito-port. Sit there . . . whatever. Don’t come back without him.” We needed to hunt down Dr Kabiri.

“Matike, drive to Bariki. Find the doctor.” I was losing my mind. Bairiki was another popular spot for avid fishers.

I rushed back to the office to report the incident to our Representative (Dr Isiye), UNDSS and Knut, the UNDP Resident Coordinator, in Suva. My cell, the satellite phone didn’t have signals at the hospital-location. We had a conference call, agreed on next steps. WHO-Suva was also roped in.

It appeared that UNFPA-operations had no information about Phillip’s medical insurance or emergency contacts. (Madness!?)

Dusk fell. The crimson of the sun flickered on coconut leaves. The tide was coming in. I felt sad
. . . afraid . . . waited . . .

The Ocean

The Lonely Road

Joao and Matike came back hours later. They found Dr Kabiri

We returned to the hospital. Silhouetted against the night sky, it looked formidable. The OT was less than basic––my heart sank.

“We can do this.” I whispered. Phillip held my hand tightly.

“I got your mom’s number. Will inform her.” I wiped the sweat-drops from his forehead, his eyes were heavy. Matike, Joao and I transferred Phillip on the stretcher and pushed it inside the OT.

We waited as the surgery progressed.

“Operation successful,” Dr Kabiri came out smiling, finally. “. . .couldn’t find the required wider diameter- tube . . . used a narrower one. That’s okay . . . airflow is slightly constricted.”

Holy (guaca) mole!!!

Later, I called Phillip’s mom in Kampala. We cried. His fiancé, Gloria, spoke––they called every evening, onward.

Phillip survived. I made pan cakes for him daily––he loved them. We cooked his meals. Almost half of his village turned up at the hospital to take care of him.

Phillip adopted me as his mom.

UNJP Office

Joao & us

Matike & team

Through the years we kept in touch. Last month, I called Phillip––Gloria had been airlifted to Nairobi, comatose––she had brain-bleeding after delivering their 3rd baby . . .

At present, Gloria is out of the ICU, is able to talk. They lost the baby.

Now I know why in my heart I felt I needed to speak with Phillip . . .

Phillip and family

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Or write to her at nuzhatshahzadi@gmail.com

LABELS: NUZHAT