The Patients Dilemma

During the years of 1940 to 1970 there were perhaps many doctors in Zanzibar…..but there were also many patients.

The Pereira family had Dr. E. Menezes as their family doctor.  He was a popular doctor.  However, before Dr. Menezes appeared on the scene, we had Dr. Albuqueque attending to our medical needs.  Dr. Albuqueque was a small skinny doctor who wore large eye glasses.  In his office, he had a life-size picture of the human body hanging at the side of his desk.  Dr. Albuqueque was known for his kind manner and for setting his patients at ease for at least the first five minutes of the visit.  He would enquire about the family and how the children were doing in school.  Finally, he would zero in on the purpose for which the patient came to see him.  No matter how serious the ailment, Dr. Albuqueque would behave as though things would be taken care of and that before long everything would be alright.  Because of his very human manner, many patients were known to say that just meeting with the doctor was half the cure.

I was only ten years old when my mother told me to see Dr. Albuqueque about a stomach ache that just did not seem to go away.  My mother was too busy to go with me, but she was assured that Dr. Albuqueque in his usual way would set me at ease and come up with the right diagnosis.  I was far too timid to go alone, but rather than invite the criticism of my brothers that I was a sissy, I decided that I would see the doctor on my own.

I arrived on foot at the Surgical Hall where Dr. Albuqueque had his practice at ten o’clock in the morning.  There were already at least four patients before me waiting to be attended to.   Each time a patient walked out of the doctor’s office, I would suffer from stress, and a cold sweat began to accumulate around my face.  Finally, I was called in.  I sat facing the doctor who continued to tidy up the paper work for the previous patient.

“Hello son,” he whispered, still concentrating on the document he was working on.

“Hello doctor,” I sputtered out.

“Whose son are you?” he asked politely.

“Mrs. Pereira…Mrs. Teacher Pereira.” I reassured him.

“How are you doing in School?” asked the inquisitive doctor.

“Very well Doctor,” I responded.

“What is your problem son?” asked the doctor with a smile.

“My stomach hurts real badly,” I complained.

Now comes the clincher.

“Do your ‘bowels’ move?” he asked in a very concerned whisper.

I took one look at the doctor; jumped out of my seat; and ran home as fast as I could.  This doctor had to be reported.  The quicker the better!

“Mom, don’t you ever tell me to go and see Dr. Albuqueque.  He is a dirty doctor.” I complained.

“Whatever happened?” questioned mother.

 In tears I told her that the doctor talked dirty and had asked me if my “balls moved.”

There was a short pause with mother trying to figure out and make some sense of what I had told her.

After a few seconds, she burst out into a laugh; caught me and hugged me and then explained to me the difference between “bowels” and “balls”.

I have never forgotten the difference.