Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope

MEDIA ALERT - 21st July 2025

The Pharmaceutical Society of Zambia has issued a strong statement following the ZAMMSA audit report and suspension of U.S. medical aid. We unequivocally condemn theft of medicines and call for urgent reforms to protect the integrity of Zambia’s healthcare system.

✓ Appoint technically qualified pharmaceutical supply chain experts to lead ZAMMSA
✓ Constitute Boards for ZAMMSA, ZAMRA & HPCZ
✓ Fully roll out traceability systems (barcoding, eLMIS)
✓ Recruit pharmacy professionals across all health facilities
✓ Restructure the Pharmaceutical Unit at MoH for greater oversight

“Without transparent governance and competent leadership, public health suffers. It’s time for bold reforms.” — Keegan Mwape, PSZ President

We remain committed to working with the Ministry of Health and partners to ensure quality, safe, and accessible medicines for every Zambian.

PSZ MEDIA & CORPORATE AFFAIRS COMMITTEE

Goodmorning 🍂

Whatever you intend to do tomorrow, do it today. Whatever you intend to do today, do it now.

Goodmorning

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿__________________________________________________
PART SEVEN - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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Morning came like a whisper.Not the kind that wakes you up with promise…But the kind that lingers at the edge of a thread.I hadn’t slept enough again. I drifted — somewhere between dreams and memories,between prayers and silence. The sun was already up, spreading gold over the old roofs of the hospital compound, but it felt... wrong. It was too beautiful a morning to carry the kind of sorrow I was holding.

I dressed slowly. Pressed my white coat flat against my chest before buttoning it,as though somehow, it could keep me from falling apart.The walk to the children’s ward felt longer than usual. My shoes crunched softly over the path. Nurses passed with clipboards and greetings, but none reached me. In my pocket, the printed biopsy report felt like a death sentence folded into four. Felt like an AK-47 in the hands of a C5 officer during a gun fight with robbers!

I reached the ward door. Paused. For a moment, I thought of running — pretending this was someone else’s burden. Some other pharmacist. A Doctor maybe. I conversed with the doctor incharge of the case last night through a phone call. I sent the lab findings through he's WhatsApp. Thabo had a 90% survival chance despite the progression and delayed diagnosis. She had a chance at fighting! But it's cancer alright - People don't take it lightly. We agreed I'd be the one to break the news to her this morning because of how closely we related - She trusted me.

While at the door, I heard her laugh fintly just beyond the door. It was her. Thabo. My heart shattered a little more. I stepped in. There she was, propped up on two pillows with sunlight catching in her hair.Her eyes lit up when she saw me. She waved weakly with that fragile wrist of hers, an IV line still tucked neatly under strapping. Her grandmother sat beside her, rosary wrapped around her fingers like a lifeline.

“Uncle Rady!” Thabo said, grinning.

“You came early today.”

I smiled. But my voice caught in my throat. It was the first time she called me “Uncle” as opposed to “Pharmacist or Mr.”

This girl…This beautiful, brave little girl… She didn’t know the magnitude of the message I needed to convey in as much as she would survive it. I took a step closer. Then another. And in that moment, I wished I didn’t know what I knew. I wished I was a bucket! A plate maybe! Not the bearer of truth. Not the deliverer of pain. I sat down beside her. She reached out and touched my hand.

“Did the results come?” she asked, eyes wide, searching.Full of hope. Full Of trust.I looked into her face. And something inside me broke. I sat beside her. And for a moment, all I did was breathe. Thabo’s eyes were still on me — full of wonder, full of belief.

I could lie. Just one more day. I could say the results weren’t ready. I could laugh and tell her stories of my days at Ridgeway Campus. I could joke about the pastors funny shoes 😂…But the paper in my pocket felt heavier. And she deserved the truth. Even if it burned. The earlier the better. I took her hand gently. Small fingers, too thin. Warm, but brittle. Her grandmother leaned in. I smiled.

“Thabo…” I began.“The results came in last night.”

Her lips parted. Hope widened in her eyes.

“Miracle! They said 5 days. Tell me, what is really wrong with me?”

I couldn’t speak. The words sat in my mouth like thorns puncturing my tongue. She looked at me, then slowly sat up straighter.

“It’s something serious, isn’t it?” she whispered. I didn’t respond. She nodded, as if bracing herself.

“I’m not afraid,” she said. But her voice shook.I reached into my coat, pulled out the folded report, but couldn’t bring myself to open it.

“It’s called... Hodgkin’s lymphoma,” I said finally.

Her brow furrowed. Then softened. Not because she understood — but because she trusted me enough to know I wouldn't say that unless it mattered. I know you equally don’t understand it. Yes you reading this. So listen and learn something.

“It’s a kind of cancer,” I added quietly. “A blood cancer. It begins in your lymph nodes — those small glands under your skin that help fight infections. Inside them, there are cells called lymphocytes — a type of white blood cell. Hodgkin’s happens when some of those cells begin to grow faster than others and in the wrong way. They turn into abnormal cells called Reed-Sternberg cells… and they start to spread around your body.”

She blinked. I continued.

“That’s why you’ve been having the fevers… the night sweats… the swelling on your neck and armpits. It’s all connected. It's a type of cancer”

Silence.

“There are treatments,” I said. “Strong ones. Chemotherapy. Sometimes radiation. The good news is that many people — even with advanced stages than yours — get better. They live. They recover.”

I paused.

“But it won’t happen here. Not at this hospital”

Her eyes searched mine.

“You’ll need to go to Lusaka. To the Cancer Diseases Hospital. They have specialists… oncologists. People trained just to fight this kind of thing.”

She sat very still.

Then — “Will I lose my hair? I've heard people with cancer lose their hair” she asked, with a nervous laugh.

I smiled.

“Maybe. But it’ll grow back okay?”

She looked at her grandmother, who sat frozen — eyes wide, rosary clutched so tightly. Her knuckles turned red.

Then, like thunder from a storm too long held back —the old woman let out a cry.

“Mulimu waka sure!”(My Lord!)

She rocked back, hands over her chest.

“My daughter... Thabo’s mother... she died like this. It started the same. The sweating… the swelling... no one knew what it was. We just said ‘she’s bewitched.’” Her voice cracked. “And now her child... Her only child!”

She began to wail softly, repeating the words through her sobs.

“Mulimu waka sure… waka sure…”

Thabo turned to her, shocked.Then slowly turned back to me.

“Uncle Rady,” she whispered.“Please… don’t leave me.”

I gripped her hand.

“I won’t,” I said.

Even though I wasn’t sure if I could keep that promise. I can't be allowed to travel to Lusaka with her. I have other patients to attend to. Reports to write. Drugs to order. Pharmaceutical care plans to write.

She laid back on her pillow slowly, eyes still open, staring at the ceiling.

“You know… when I was little, I used to think that dying felt like falling asleep in the rain.”

I swallowed hard.

“You’re not dying,” I whispered."You need to go to Lusaka for further management"

🌿💊🌬️ 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?

Do have a blossom night 🌸

🌿💊🌬️ 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.”

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🌿💊🌬️ 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.” 🥺

Goodmorning to you 👋

🌿💊🌬️ WHISPERS FROM THE YELLOW SCARF 💊🌿___________________________________________________
PART THREE - By Pharmacist Rady - Doses Of Hope
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By 06:00 yesterday, I was already dressed, sitting at the edge of my bed with my shoes on, but no strength to tie the laces. I stared at my hands—hands that had filled prescriptions, adjusted doses, comforted patients,… and now, they felt useless. Tainted.

I finally stood up and left home at 06:30. The walk to the hospital was cold. The early morning mist settled over it like a soft grey blanket. But there was no peace in it. Just weight. I passed a few workers heading to the wards. Some greeted me. Some didn’t. The air felt..... different.

When I reached the children's ward, I paused just outside the entrance. Took a deep breath. Then stepped in.

And there she was.

Thabo.

On bed number 8 lying on a thin hospital sheet. Her eyes closed and chest rising slowly. Her grandmother was seated beside her, arms folded, face blank—like a stone that had forgotten how to feel!

“You!” a loud voice probably from the pharynx of a mid-thirties man called out to me as though attempting to scare a thousand demons out of my body! A few patients tilted to look.

Turning in the direction of this voice, I found his eyes locked on me.. The pastor. Clothed in a shiny white suit, far too polished for purchase in Kalabo shops – ”Kamwala swag“ I thought silently. His Bible was thick, cornered under one arm like a weapon. And his shoes… My God his shoes. anyway, let's focus on the story for now ....

I nodded politely, unsure how to respond.

“You’re the one,” he continued. “The one I saw in my vision. The one doing things here that the Lord is not pleased with.”

I glanced at the nurse beside me. She looked away.

“Sir,” I said quietly, “I think we should talk privately. In my office perhaps?”

“There’s no need for private talks,” he replied. “Truth must be exposed in the open. That girl nearly died yesterday. And now everyone sees it. You’re not just helping. You’re… planning something”

My blood ran cold.

“Planning something?” I asked.

“Yes! You are not straight . These people trusted you, but the Lord showed me something else.”

Whispers rippled through the small crowd forming around Thabo’s bed.

I turned to Thabo’s grandmother with hope that she would defend me

“Kuku, mwaniziba. Muboni zenenibatile kumuyezeza Thabo”
(Grandma you know me. You’ve seen everything I’ve tried to do for Thabo.)

She looked at me slowly. Her voice cracked.

“Batili luzibani fela mabani bo dokota. Kono nelusika kupa tuso kumina.”
(No Doctor, we only knew you yesterday and never asked for your help)

My chest ached.

“But I had to,” I said. “She was in a dilemma. The diagnosis was not so accurate. Something was being missed. The other Doctor came to confirm this remember? I registered her on my NHIMA because no one else could. I reached out to the lab because time was running out.”

The pastor interrupted.

“Exactly. Too involved. Why her? Why so much effort for one girl. Her condition is TB. That's it. What else do you and the other Doctor want to find out?”

And that’s when I saw it.

This wasn’t just about fear. This was about how foreign kindness looks when someone has lived in constant need. Suspicion grows where trust has never been watered.

But this was it for me. I decided to give up. The whispers grew. The crowd shifted. This whole thing would ruin me entirely.....

I looked at Thabo again for the last time. Her face was still. Too still.I stepped closer to the nurse.

“What’s her status?” I whispered.

“She’s stable,” she said softly. “But weak. She keeps asking for you when she wakes. She says you’re a good man.”

I closed my eyes and felt the urge to cry. But I pushed it back - like the kwacha against the dollar in recent days. She trusted me 😭. This wasn’t about my name anymore. It was about hers.

Thabo.