House Calls

It is late morning as I join a nurse and a pastor for a home visit in a “location” outside Harare. The nurse works for a charitable organization in Harare. The preacher preaches at a nearby church. I carry the nurse’s box of medicines.

The house we visit is comparatively nice. It is roughly 20 feet by 7 feet -- about twice the size of many houses around here. Unlike most homes nearby, which are made with mud bricks, this one’s walls are made of smooth, dark grey concrete. The roof is several thin metal sheets covered by thatch and then secured with a blue tarp. There are no windows.

After shaking hands, we all sit outside against the front wall of the house. The owner of the house springs up to offer me the only chair available. It is metal and backless; two poles rise from the seat but no longer serve a purpose. I say thanks, but I’m fine here; you take the chair. The man returns to the ground next to us and the chair goes unused.

A moment later, the man’s wife arrives and ushers us inside, through a thin metal door with no hinges. It is my first time inside a house like this in Zimbabwe.

Walking through the door, we stand in the living room. Just inside the door on a shelf are three plastic jugs for carrying and storing water. Above those is a poster of a soldier I do not recognize. On the far wall is a shelf with a few cups and dishes and little else. There are no cabinets. It seems as though they barely own anything.

A carpet covers most of the room. Across the carpet lies a wall and a partially open internal door. An unmade bed sits on the other side.

I am again offered the backless chair; this time I accept. The wife sits near me, legs outstretched in front of her, on the carpet. The pastor and nurse squat while the husband stands near the door, the only source of light. As I sit and listen to the nurse and husband talk in Shona, I wonder how many of the children playing nearby outside sleep on this carpet or in the bedroom.

The husband speaks slowly and looks fatigued. He is probably in his 30s, but he seems much older and more frail. His face is covered by a rash. I later learn that he is HIV positive, and that the rash is likely the result of tuberculosis drugs. The nurse gives him some ointment and advises him to stay out of the sun.

Less lethargic than her husband, the wife still has her own problems. She relates them to the nurse and gratefully accepts a plastic package of pills. The nurse later tells me that although she has not been tested, he is fairly certain the wife has HIV as well. He expresses concern about their children, telling me that he recently came across a family where both parents and all four children were HIV positive.

As we walk away from the concrete house, the wife calls out after us and runs up holding a plastic bowl containing small, brownish carrots immersed in water. She hands me one and insists that the nurse and pastor take the rest. We accept. As we drive off, I wonder how much of today’s food they just gave us.

The people we visit this morning have HIV, severe rashes, chicken pox, head fungi, jaundice, and other ailments. Some can be helped with drugs and counseling, but it’s hard to make much progress in unsanitary conditions where adults and children are impoverished and malnourished.