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.
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