The Patient. Olive Kobusingye

low prices. Most doctors would turn around and sell the items to supplement their meagre incomes. Likewise, Amin had a fuel pump installed in Old Mulago close to the Polio Hostel for the exclusive use of doctors.

      ***

      Military doctors everywhere enjoy respect from the men and women they serve, and in times of peace, recruits to such positions are attracted to the trappings of a military office without the risk of combat. Amin’s army doctors would have been no different. They would have had many privileges that their civilian peers did not have – a furnished house, a car, a food allowance, and access to the army shop where they could buy commodities such as wine and whisky that were not readily available on the market. And for all that, the most they would have had to do was examine recruits, and treat minor ailments at the army clinic. For one such doctor (names withheld) life was not perfect, but he was not complaining. The military coup in January 1971 had not brought any change to his personal circumstances. Then things started to change. First, he was singled out during an officers’ meeting as being the doctor. “Eh. Daktari?” the President had half asked, half stated, as though this was a curiosity. Then he started receiving calls to attend to patients whose injuries were clearly not accidental. Multiple fractures, black eyes, bruises all over the body, even burns. He saw most of these patients only once and never asked what happened to them after his one-off treatment sessions. He had to certify deaths whose causes were evidently unnatural. He was already sleeping poorly and having nightmares when the Commandant called him to his office and notified him that there were going to be executions, and that he would be required to certify that the men to be executed were in good health. Executions! His heart did a somersault and then started racing. He felt sick. He had not become a doctor to do this. Besides, if these men were going to be killed, what did it matter whether they had tuberculosis, gonorrhea, or were in perfect health? And once they were shot, why could the men assigned to do the deed not confirm for themselves that their mission had been accomplished? After all, Ugandans were being killed and buried every day without requiring that a doctor confirm their demise. But he had been in the army long enough to know that you did not question orders. He listened attentively, gave the required salute, and walked out of the Commandant’s office with his stomach churning, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. A few years previously, an army officer that he knew well had been executed in Mbale. He had been tried by an army tribunal and found guilty of being a FRONASA8 collaborator. Masaba had been a pleasant guy, and they had played darts together a few times. His execution had left the doctor quite depressed for some time.

      ***

      Kweete was giddy with excitement at the prospect of traveling to Kampala. She had heard her father talk about the city, but she never imagined that she would one day see it with her own eyes. She and her brother Kwesiga, who everybody called Kwesi, often played games in which they were going to Kampala, and coming back with lots of goodies that they imagined were free for the taking once one got to the city. Kweete’s cousin Karungi had been to Kampala. She traveled with her mother to her sister’s wedding, at which she was a bridesmaid. When she returned, Kweete and Biitu were waiting to hear all about the city. They were disappointed. Karungi told them that they stayed in a place called Bukoto, and that her aunt’s house was a flat. That was confusing – how was a house flat? Then the wedding happened at a big church, and the reception was at a big hotel near the church. Biitu wanted to know if she saw the President’s house. She had not. Did she see the TV house? No. Did she see Lake Victoria? No. Biitu quickly concluded that Karungi’s Kampala visit did not count. Now Kweete was about to go there, and she intended to make her visit count.

      Kweete had been to Kisizi Hopsital for her routine review, and the Mzungu doctor who examined her talked to her father at length afterwards. Kweete did not understand most of what was said as the white man’s speech was hard to follow, but from what she could piece together, the doctors at Mulago Hospital in Kampala had come up with new ways of treating heart diseases such as she had. Kweete had waited for them to leave the hospital, but on the way home she could not contain her curiosity any longer.

      “Father, what did the Mzungu say?”

      “He thinks you are doing well. He has said that you should carry on with the medicines that you have been taking.”

      “Is that all?”

      “He mentioned that there is a group of doctors in Mulago who are working very hard to find better ways of treating heart diseases. He thought it might be good idea for them to examine you as well.”

      “So are we going there?”

      “Not right away. I need to discuss it with your mother, and to take leave from work to be able to take you. The doctor said it is not urgent, but if and when we do decide to go he will give us a letter to the doctors in Mulago.”

      Kweete had to be content with that, not knowing if they would ever go. That had been months ago. Then one night her father came home and announced that he and Kweete would be traveling to Kampala in the morning. He had the letter from the hospital, and as it happened, the hospital van was due to pick up supplies from Kampala, so they had offered to take them to Mulago on the same trip. Everything happened so fast. Kweete had no opportunity to tell her friends that she was going to Kampala. They would be so envious! Only Kwesi was there to wish he was going.

      The Medical Outpatient Clinics at Mulago were located on the 4th floor of the hospital’s front wing. There was a pharmacy at the entrance, and there were labs on site to do most of the basic tests needed by the doctors. Patients who did not need imaging could come in for care and leave without needing to get farther into the hospital. All the consultation rooms were designed with wide glass windows overlooking the car park, and the sun and fresh air made this a pleasant place to work, even considering that it was a hospital. Sr. Imelda Atim kept a very orderly clinic. Dr. Kibukamusoke liked to know as soon as he came in how many patients were booked, and if they had the latest lab results on file. He usually saw the new patients first, especially if they were referrals from upcountry. The child from Kabale was the first in line.

      Eight o’clock came and went, as did 9 o’clock. This was unusual for Dr. Kibukamusoke to not be at the clinic on time, and more unusual still that he had not communicated about his absence. On the few occasions when he was unable to run the clinic, he let the staff know who would see his patients. At 9.30 am Atim called the doctor’s office, and the telephone went unanswered. Atim walked to the Department of Medicine on the same floor and asked the Department secretary if she had seen Dr. Kibukamusoke. “No. I have not seen him this morning. You may want to check with Dr. D’Arbela in case he is teaching somewhere.”

      “He would have let us know. And I noticed his car is not at its usual spot. It seems like he has not come to the hospital at all. Could you please check if someone else has been assigned to see the patients? We have a full clinic.”

      It had been only three months since Kibukamusoke took over the headship of the department from Dr. Bill Parson who left in December 1972. By the following day, rumour had it that Dr. Kibukamusoke had left the country. Within a few weeks he was replaced by Dr. Paul D’Arbela, a physician with specialization in diseases of the heart, and one that had made major contributions to the training of specialist doctors at Makerere.

      Kibukamusoke’s departure was by no means unique. Some doctors walked off ward rounds to go to the bathroom, and did not return for decades, if ever. The less lucky were picked up by the State Research Bureau agents, never to be seen again. Dr. D’Arbela’s succeeding Kibukamusoke as department head was the easy part. The more difficult assignment proved to be that of personal physician to the Head of State, Field Marshal Idi Amin Dada. Very early on in that role, D’Arbela found out that his predecessor’s woes had stemmed from his attempt to monitor and treat the President’s gout problems. The repeated requests for urine samples worried Amin. He feared that he was being poisoned through the urine. Too paranoid to place his health in the hands of one doctor, Amin had secured the services of an Egyptian doctor on the side. With this knowledge, D’Arbela played it very safe. He made all his prescriptions sound like mere suggestions, knowing that Amin would discuss them with the Egyptian physician, who would very likely issue the same instructions D’Arbela would have given. With this delicate triangular