Dear Sir,
I read your recent report on my testimony at the Coroner’s inquest on the death of former US Ambassador Dawda Fadera and wish to make the following clarifications on my statement
It goes like this: I was actually on ward rounds (seeing admitted patients) at the 6&7 male surgical ward when I received a call from my senior that Mr Fadera’s ‘condition’ had ‘changed’ and that I should immediately check on him. I was shocked because I knew him personally and was never aware of his admission or whatsoever. I didn’t hesitate to run to the scene. Upon arrival, I found the nurses resuscitating him by chest compressions and ambubagging. I ordered for a brief halt and quickly checked his pulses, cardiopulmonary activity and Pupils. Unfortunately, these examinations were not promising. Resuscitation continued for another 20 minutes, but to no avail. At this point, there was absolutely no signs of life. Death was pronounced and the body was prepared and transferred to the mortuary. My senior doctor was later informed about the death.
Dr Lamin K.Ceesay
EFSTH
Conversation with myself
My friend, we may all call Gambia home, but we live in very different Gambias. It’s easy for some of us to see the glass half full. Many can’t even find the glass but they also call Gambia home. The hardest part for some is to feel the pain of others living right next to them. Cooking their meals, washing their cars, begging for lifts, hawking wares, carrying briefcases, securing them, serving them, begging, teaching and cleaning. Do you know their names? My friend, what concerns us is often what we concern ourselves with.
My friend, we share the same roads, but we don’t breathe the same dust. I walk the roads and you drive or are driven on the roads with your windows up so you won’t smell me or inhale the dust all around you. Your privilege is courtesy of my blood, sweat and tears. A privilege I am denied.
My friend, we share the same sun but not the same heat. Your air is regulated while I sweat in my clothes, crying to someday live like you. You live on my tears and sweat, saddling me with more debt for my children to pay. Yet you claim to be working for me.
My friend, the way we “hate” corruption in The Gambia, imagine if we didn’t love it so very much, it would have long since died.
My friend, the way we lay claim to morality and shun hypocrisy. The way we annihilate actions we perceive to be immoral, imagine if we were not so “moral”, hypocrisy would have thrived. And imagine if we didn’t hate the “word” hypocrite, perhaps we would not see ourselves in it and take offense at its mere mention. We all know there are hypocrites; it’s just that no one knows who they are and that is what scares me.
My friend, the way we hate backbiting, imagine if we didn’t love gossiping so much, backbiting would have died. But there is a reason gossiping gets you places and friends. All you know about Momodou is what Jabou told you but you’re quick to claim that you know Momodou very well!
My friend, the way we strive for excellence, imagine if we didn’t settle for mediocrity? Can’t you see how well the IEC planned everything and even shared a vague letter Gamsplaining why they can’t register Gambians? Can’t you see how our foreign ministry was entering into deals and Gamsplaining to convince us that they didn’t sell our people out?
Alagie Saidy-Barrow
