UNZA TV- Ridgeway campus

25/06/2025

The ending for today 🥺

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿__________________________________________________
PART SIX - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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Before I saw their faces, I saw the beast they rode in—That white ambulance -The mighty land cruiser cruising the well known ghost of western province – Sand! It matched the looks of Catherine Phiri after a successful boxing match that left her with bruises but victorious. It parked right near the SHA’s office, Panting like a tired hero.

Time? 21:15 hours.

Date? Yesterday.

You see, earlier that day, After a word with the nurse in the ward, I got slapped—not by a hand, But by a truth so sharp it left my ears ringing and my eyes dry - like Sindambi on Bo kuku’s roof (like wild sour vegetables on Grandmother's roof).

Thabo was alive!

Maggie Like and Linda Lubelenga called it

"The Twist of Fate" on yesterday’s post
(Thank you, Facebook comment section—you never disappoint).

So I dialed the ambulance driver, he said, “Just a few more tests. We’ll be back by 20.” I waited like Zambians waited for the body of ECL at the airport. Eight came. Nothing. Nine ticked in, and finally.... They arrived. Not just with a girl we thought we lost, But with the kind of plot twist that even Netflix would envy.

The passenger door creaked open and she came out. A blue chitenge wrapped around her shoulders like armor – Thabo! Her eyes were half-closed against the moon and night lights and she was supported by the nurse who escorted the dual. She nodded at me as I approached — a silent confirmation that we did it.

Next to step out was her grandmother. However, with the advent of the cyber act, I’d rather not describe what she was wearing like I din’t describe the pastors shoes! We move ...

We sat beneath the acacia tree behind the outpatient department. The Escorting nurse and I. It was shaded and sacred — the one place at the hospital where time paused. And there, with the dust still clinging to our shoes, we talked.

“The tests are done pharmacist,” She said. “Biopsy, imaging, everything. They said results in five days.”

I nodded, but before I could speak, the grandmother stepped forward. She reached for my hands. Hers were rough, sunburnt, trembling with age and remorse.

“Mwanake (My Child) … forgive me,” she whispered in Lozi. “I believed the wrong things. I feared what I didn’t understand. They told me you were… that you used dark things. I was blind. You only wanted to help my granddaughter”

Her voice cracked.My eyes became watery - someone was definitely cutting onions - Tears almost spilled over my lashes. I shook my head gently, pressing her hands in mine.

“Bo Kuku (Grandma)” I said softly, “you were just scared. It’s okay to be scared. What matters is that you still chose to fight.”

Then came the Pastor. From nowhere. I honestly did not see him leaving the car or anywhere around the hospital. He just …. Appeared! But without those shoes this time around 😅😂

Tall, composed, but with shoulders heavy with regret. He bowed slightly — more than I expected.

“I judged your kindness as something else. I forgot that healing doesn’t always wear a collar. I’m sorry.”

I nodded, swallowing the storm in my throat.

I went into the ward. I couldn't wait to see lady of the moment. Thabo. She sat beside me, legs dangling off her bed, her fingers nervously playing with the corner of her sleeve.

“You didn’t give up on me,” she said quietly.

“Never,” I replied.

She looked at me — that same fierce, fragile look I’d seen the first day she came to the pharmacy. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I heard you got in trouble today, is that true."

I smiled "No Thabo. I wouldn't be allowed near the hospital had that been the case. All is well." I concluded.

“Thank you so much. We wouldn't have done all this without your help. I want to live healthy now, Mr Rady. I want to try. Especially after we know what is wrong with my body and treat it.”

My hand found hers, and for a moment, all the noise — the hospital generators, the distant coughing, the murmurs of patients and bedsiders — faded into a hush. There are moments when time breathes. This was one of them.

This evening, I returned home. My shirt still held the scent of the wards — Savlon, Dettol and methylated spirit. I dropped my bag, took off my shoes, and sank into the old wooden chair by my desk.
I opened my laptop, out of habit more than expectation.Then I saw it. In my mail box.

Subject: Lab Report – Thabo M. (Urgent Release)
Received: 6:13 PM

Five days, they had said.But the miracle came tonight. They sent it to me because of my NHIMA details as her guardian.

I stared at the subject line, my heart began to race.I hadn’t even clicked it open yet. But something inside me already knew...It was not going to be easy. With fingers that barely obeyed me, I opened the attachment. A clinical chill swept all over me.

PATIENT NAME: Thabo M.
AGE: 16
S*X: Female

Let me skip the medical jargon I analysed while reading the report. Things like Reed Sternberg cells positive. I know you can barely understand the CD15, CD30 and EBV-LMP1 positives!

FINAL DIAGNOSIS:
Classical Hodgkin Lymphoma – Nodular Sclerosis Type (Stage IV suspected)

COMMENTS:
Recommend staging work-up including CT imaging and bone marrow biopsy. Urgent referral to oncologist advised.

In my house too quiet for a night like this, the air feels heavy. Am still on my desk, head in my hands.The laptop screen is dimming before me.But inside… I am already drowning in the dark.

How do you look into a childs eyes…and tell her she has cancer?

24/06/2025

And so it gets more interesting ☺️. Supposedly you are new to the story, follow the page below and enjoy all the parts. Otherwise, ilepanga sense 🥂

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿
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PART FIVE - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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“She’s gone.”

Yesterday, I stood motionless, the words still echoing in my ears. Time seemed to slow, yet my thoughts raced — darting between grief, helplessness, and guilt. I didn’t want to hear anything else.

“She… she wanted you to have this.” The nurse said while placing her scarf in my hands — the same yellow one Thabo wore every day like armor. It still smelled like her. Dust. Soap. Teenagehood.

I stared at it, my fingers curling around the fabric like I was holding her hand.

“Was this her last wish? To give me something to hold when she couldn’t be held anymore?”

The nurse reached into her pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. Her hand shook as she passed it to me.

“She wrote this. Said I should give it to you if… if things ..........”

She barely finished when I grabbed the paper and opened it slowly. Her handwriting was crooked — some letters big, some small, like her body was too tired to be neat.

At the top was a pencil sketch — it was me! Not perfect. But real. She even got the lines under my eyes, my head shape, curly hair and the way my coat always hangs slightly off my shoulder!

Beneath it were these words

“Bo Rady, nitumezi ahulu (Mr Rady,thank you very much)”

I didn’t speak.
I just pressed the scarf to my chest, and the world, for a moment, fell completely still.

Thabo was gone. But in her quiet way,she left a piece of herself behindso I wouldn’t fall apart completely.And somehow,even in death,she was still comforting me.

Without a care of my emotions, the nurse, continued.

"Let me tell you more of what happened..."

I didn’t look at her. But she went on — her voice steady. Not prying. Not pitying. Just... present.

“After you went to meet the visitors in the office... The clinician who had been seeing her and the Doctor spoke to the grandmother. She was terrified. Confused. Angry — at the world, at herself. But they didn’t rush her. They just sat by Thabo’s bedside with her. Quiet at first. Then slowly, they explained everything... the possible misdiagnosis ... the biopsy... the scans... the road to Mongu.... The sacrifice you made ... But still, the grandmother refused.”

I swallowed hard. My throat burned. Of what essence was this conversation? Thabo was already dead after all.

The nurse continued without a care of my grief

“She was very weak. An oxygen mask strapped over her face. Barely breathing. Then, all of a sudden — she stirred. Opened her eyes. Slid the mask off. And cried... cried with every ounce of life still left in her. She begged her grandmother to let her go to Mongu. Said you moved mountains to make it happen. That she’d heard the whispers — about your disciplinary hearing this morning. Somehow, through the walls, through the wind through the talks, she knew. And she felt guilty. She said she couldn’t let the person who cared about her condition lose his job over false allegations.”

I stared at the floor. My hands trembled.

“She held her grandmother’s hand. Told her you loved her enough to fight. She cried until she could hardly breathe. Her oxygen saturation seemed to reduce. We tried to get her put the mask back on but..... She wouldn’t..... She refused”

The nurse paused. The silence felt like a scream.

"So in the end...” she began again.

My lips moved on their own.

“She died.....” I whispered, as tears rolled down my cheeks.

The nurse looked at me. Gently wiped my face. And said

“She’s gone...... to Mongu ...... For the tests.”

23/06/2025

He's style of writing is simply unmatched. Just wow! Follow his page Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope and start the story from the beginning. Otherwise, part 4 is giving tears 😞🥺 Admin alila kuno 😭

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿
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PART FOUR - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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There’s something sacred about the compounding room.
It’s where medicine becomes ministry—where chaos is slowly ground into order, one measured dose at a time. In that quiet, I find clarity. No politics. No ticking clocks. Just me, the mortar, the pestle, and the weight of a life depending on every decision I make. It’s the one place I can still hear the oath I swore the day I chose this path.

That’s where the medical officer in-charge found me this morning. I didn’t hear his footsteps, but I heard his voice pierce through the quiet like a dropped vial of Benzathine penicillin – your favorite drug hahahaha! Yes you. You know yourself. Anyway, allow me to continue with the story.

“Bo Pharmacist Rady,” he said cautiously, “there are visitors. From the district office. You might want to come with me to the Hospital Administrator’s office.”

I didn’t need to ask who. My gut already knew.

Inside the office sat two and a half people: the District Pharmacist (DP), the Senior Hospital Administrator (SHA), and the District Health Director (DHD) attending virtually—her face framed awkwardly on a tablet propped against a bottle of hand sanitizer. I presume you know who the “half-person” is.

The Senior Hospital Administrator spoke first.
“Pharmacist,” he said, tone clipped, “you’ve been cited for overstepping your scope of practice, for using NHIMA privileges on someone not legally declared your dependent, and for becoming far too involved with a patient’s family—allegedly to an alarming degree.”

I nodded once. Calm on the outside. “I understand.”

He leaned back. “What we need is clarity. Why her? Why bypass the system?”

I folded my hands, pressing them together to keep them from shaking.

“Because,” I said, steadying my voice, “we’ve built a system that’s allergic to urgency. And this girl…” I paused. “This girl didn’t need a refill for MDR TB. She didn’t need another regimen.’ She needed to be seen and helped and I did just that."

“And the accusations of rituals?” From the tablet, the DHD chipped in – Her voice as sharp as a 23G needle tip.

A quiet rage pulsed through me, but I kept my face still.

“People project what they can’t understand. That family has lived in the shadows of pain for too long. Their fear isn’t personal—it’s survival. When hope knocks too loudly, they mistake it for danger.”

Silence fell like a curtain.

Then the District Pharmacist shook his head slowly. “My guy… you know I’ve got love for you. But this one? I can’t shield you. You’ve crossed a line, and you might have to stand alone for now.”

The SHA cleared his throat. “This is your verbal warning. You are to cease all involvement with Thabo Manyando. Effective immediately.”

Then came the voice through the tablet again. “Until this investigation is closed, we expect you to refrain from any further personal interventions. Is that clear?”

I nodded. “Crystal.”

But my heart roared in defiance.

Because the other day, I found out that she trusted me. Also, her name—Thabo Manyando—echoed louder than any reprimand. How does one name carry such contradiction? Thabo—Joy. Manyando—Troubles. It’s as if God Himself sculpted her name from a paradox, letting joy and sorrow live side by side in one fragile body.And right now, sorrow was winning.

It was clear I needed to step back. I walked out of that office slowly—each step heavier than the one before. The sun outside had no warmth. The corridor that once felt like a familiar artery of purpose now stretched like a punishment. My shoes echoed off the concrete like reminders of everything I was being told to let go.

I decided I was going to see her one last time. Not to justify myself. Not to educate her. Just… to be human. To look her in the eye and silently apologize for stepping back. I turned the corner to the ward, hoping to catch that small smile she once gave me. I wanted to see her scarf and tell it to seize whispering to me for help. I was done this time around! But when I reached her bed… it was empty.

No blanket. No pillow. Just silence. The oxygen tubing that used to snake toward her was coiled on the floor like it too had given up.
My throat tightened. I didn’t speak. I didn’t move.

All I could think of was how I missed her last moments. Did the system I tried to work around finally swallow Thabo whole?

For a moment, the world blurred. Not from tears, but from a kind of weight behind my eyes—like my soul itself was aching. Then the nurse on duty, quietly folding linens at the corner, looked at me. No drama. No details. Just two words.

“She’s gone.” 🥺

17/06/2025

Mmmmmh 🥺

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿_______________________________________________________
PART ONE - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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I’ve learned that pain has a scent.

I’ve also learned that pain does not always scream.

Sometimes, it whispers to you.

In the hospital corridors where bleach tries to erase sorrow, pain still lingers — like the aftertaste of a bitter pill. Sometimes pain waits quietly — nursed in silence, misnamed for years, clothed in hope, and mistaken for something it’s not.

This morning, it rained with a kind of melancholy I couldn’t name despite the rain season being long gone. A cold drizzle tapped the hospital roof like a heartbeat, and I thought it would be a slow day. It wasn't.

With little to do in my office, I decided to help at the Outpatient dispensary. I walked there through the long hospital corridor with precision and uttermost innocence, practicing my dispensing instructions and counseling points without the knowledge of what fate had for me today. Unknown to me at that time was that each step drew me closer to a place where my day would take a drastic turn!

I finally reached, passed my regards to the staff and told them we would dispense and compound together – something they loved and quickly agreed to! As you may not already know, the Head Of the Pharmacy department in hospitals rarely dispenses drugs through “the popular window” but is rather buried in reports and other supply chain and managerial issues.

Her name appeared like any other on the prescription – Thabo Manyando. Age: 16. Diagnosis: Multiple Drug Resistant Tuberculosis.

Her name and condition whispered to me. Her name meant “Joy”, but nothing was joyful about her medical condition.

I looked up and saw her on the other side of the window. Slumped against the wall, head wrapped in a yellow scarf stained at the edges. Her skin was dull and fading like an unpleasant childhood memory you don’t want to remember! Her cheekbones protruded like the sharp ends of 2 assegais, and her eyes—my God—her eyes carried the hollowness of someone who had stopped expecting anything good!

She wore a secondhand fleece jacket meant for a grown man. I know this because the sleeves dragged along her fingers and the shoulder parts were on her elbows. Beneath it, a faded blue dress hanging from her frame like wet laundry on a line. Her feet were bare. The mismatched sandals she came with were carried by the woman standing next to her. Her mother, I presumed, though she looked too aged and too defeated. They both smelled faintly of firewood smoke and Litapi (fish). They looked like people the world had forgotten!

I greeted them softly.

“Muzuhilecwani sha?”
"Good morning"

The old lady looked up slowly.

“Luzuhile hainyani. Muzuhile cwani bo Dokota?”
"We are not so good. Goodmorning to you doctor"

Thabo stirred but said nothing.

It is a common trend in Zambia to refer to anyone you find at the hospital clothed in a white coat as “Doctor 🩺” regardless of their profession. I am a pharmacist 💊 for God's sake!

Anyway, I smiled and responded to her greeting then looked down to scan the young girl's file.

Another refill for “MDR TB,” it said.She had cycled through first-line TB treatment for 6 months, then MDR therapy for 9 months, and was now back on an alternative MDR protocol intended for an additional 12 months.....It didn’t sit right with me. A teenage girl—no cough, no fever this time, just drenching night sweats, enlarged lymph nodes, severe fatigue, and unexplained weight loss. And still… MDR TB?

“Your file says you’re back for TB medicine,” I said, crouching to meet her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged weakly.

“Same.”

Then, with a strained voice, she added,

“Kuti ki TB aisikafela (They say it’s still TB.)"

I frowned.

“When was the last time you had a sputum test?” I asked.

The old lady shook her head. “They stopped asking for it last year. They just keep adding and removing tablets with every clinical visit. She’s tired.”

I opened her file again. No new labs. No GeneXpert. No biopsy, despite the prominent lymph nodes on her neck.I touched her wrist—thin and warm—and gently said,

“Kezeli (My sister), I don’t think this is TB.”

I reached out to the clinician who has been attending to her for the last 2 years. He said he was tired of this case and wanted someone else to take a look at it. I called in a favor. I contacted a Doctor I trust from the same hospital and arranged a brief re-evaluation. It confirmed my suspicion—no pulmonary symptoms, no cough, no hemoptysis (coughing of blood), no lung crackles.

But there was something else: Hard, immobile lymph nodes in her cervical and supraclavicular region.Her night sweats were drenching. Her appetite was gone. She was slowly… silently… dying.

We initiated a provisional referral to Phil Labs in Mongu for a biopsy and other tests our hospital didn't offer—but the bill of K14,500.00 was the mountain we couldn’t climb.

“We don’t even have enough to go back to Sikongo,” her grandmother whispered. “I sold my last goat to buy her cough syrup three months ago. Even that didn't help.”

I found out during the re-evaluation that the old woman was Thabo’s grandmother. She lost both her parents to a lightning strike at the age of 4 years. It was her grandmother that took her in and raised her until now. My God 🤦🏾‍♂️

I went back to the pharmacy, locked the door, and sat at my desk with her file in my hands and troubled thoughts of the bill. The little girl was literally helpless.That’s when I did it. I went to the NHIMA office and registered Thabo as my beneficiary. It was bending every rule. But rules don’t comfort the dying. Humanity does.

Using my NHIMA coverage, we placed an emergency requisition for supportive medicines and nutritional supplements then arranged for lab test requests at Phil Labs in Mongu. This was the beginning of my troubles that had a denting and depressing impact on my day.

The lab request was approved almost as soon as the NHIMA personnel sent it! A miracle! Most approvals take 24 to 72 hours! This was a sign that God was indeed in support of my actions! I rushed out of the NHIMA office with joy to find Thabo and break the good news to her and the grandmother. I just couldn't contain this joy alone!

“Kuku (Grandmother)” I called out when I found her sitting at the OPD waiting area and Thabo sleeping helplessly on a mat ”I have covered the tests using my insurance. Thabo will go to Mongu with other referral patients this afternoon. We’ll soon find out what this really is.”

Her eyes widened.

“Mwanake ....... Why are you doing this?”

Before I could answer, she asked again—louder this time, her voice trembling with something I couldn’t yet name:

"Is this about rituals? Are you trying to arrange for Thabo to have her organs harvested and sold for your gain once we reach Mongu?"

My stomach dropped.

Her accusations and shouting attracted other patients and members of staff who I could see forming a crowd around us. She looked at them, felt energized by their "backup" and continued

“Some people here said you took a strange interest in my grandchild. Do you always do this for everyone bo dokota? Thabo came here walking but as you can see, she has become weak after your intervention and suggestion that it's not TB that she is suffering from."

My mouth became as dry as Loti’s wife when she turned into a pillar of salt!

“when a young man with soft hands helps too much, he’s not just helping ... what is your gain out of all this!?” she challenged me ending in a high tone.

I stood there, stunned, as all eyes turned to me accusingly and waited for my response — People were torn between Thabo’s need for help and the fear of what that help might cost her.

My hands are tired from writting this 🤦🏾‍♂️ My heart 💔? still in pain and tears periodically rolling down my cheeks 😢 onto my journal 📖. I will tell you more of what happened later .............

13/03/2024

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24/09/2023

Ridgeway debate and speech society-UNZA executive dance

24/09/2023

Poem by Mitchelle

24/09/2023

Ridgeway debate and speech society-UNZA 2nd League underway.

Debate rules now being shared by the Debate Coordinator - Michelle

Tune in or come through to public lecture theatre.

30/06/2023

For those who were unable to attend physically

30/06/2023

GBV is public health matter!!!
It contributes to morbidity, affects healthcare provision and contributes to mortality.

Are you attending the 2nd edition of the Gender Ethics and Integrity conference?

How do you think students can contribute towards the fight against GBV?

30/06/2023

2nd edition of the Gender Ethics and Integrity conference 2023.

First speaker Dr. Lucas Nkhoma from UNESCO

Interesting insights being shared so far. He is sharing about the work UNESCO is doing in 12 institutions of higher learning of which UNZA is one of themn.

He highlighted the 4 pillars of the project as being
1. Capacity building
2. Student health and wellbeing
3. Safety on campus and
4. The power of research.

He also talked about the 3 O plus goals which focuses on Our rights, Our lives and Our future. as well as the OwnU app.

He called upon students to tap into I these programs and benefit from the work being done.

GBV is a public health matter...

24/06/2023

We are live from the Ridgeway Main Hall covering the Poetry Slam and Speech Battle by the Ridgeway debate and speech society-UNZA be sure to follow their page