Overview:
In Mulago’s corridors, stories like these unfold quietly, often unnoticed, narratives of endurance, vulnerability, and occasional intervention. For some families, help comes just in time. For others, the wait continues, stretching hope thin against the weight of circumstance.
After days of uncertainty, relief finally came for Lokwang Lokong Loyor and his wife, Esther Naput, in the busy corridors of Mulago National Referral Hospital.
The couple had travelled hundreds of kilometres from Losimit village in Nabilatuk District, carrying their frail 18-month-old daughter whose tiny body is battling a severe kidney condition. Referred from Moroto Regional Referral Hospital, they arrived at Mulago on February 12, hopeful that specialised care would offer their child a chance at survival. Instead, they found themselves waiting. For nearly a week, the family lived in the corridors of Mulago.
The emotional strain of watching their child’s condition hang in the balance was compounded by another barrier: language. Lokwang and Esther speak neither English nor Luganda, the dominant languages within Uganda’s largest referral facility.
“They could not explain what was wrong, nor understand what the doctors were saying,” recalled Michael Lotee, a relative who later travelled from Nabilatuk to help. “Everything felt like guesswork.”
Communication only improved after Lotee’s arrival, but new frustrations emerged. Blood samples drawn for critical tests were reportedly misplaced, forcing medical staff to repeat the procedures. The delays stretched into days, and the family was informed they would have to wait until Monday, February 23, to see a doctor. By then, anxiety had hardened into exhaustion.
But on Thursday evening, events took an unexpected turn. Following media coverage of the family’s predicament, the child was reviewed and taken for scanning almost immediately. A fee initially quoted at 300,000 Shillings for kidney imaging, an impossible sum for the family, was ultimately waived. “I told them we didn’t have the money,” Lotee said.
“We stayed there with our luggage, unsure of what to do. Then they came for us and conducted the scan free of charge.” Soon after, the child was allocated a bed. Surgery was scheduled for Wednesday. For the first time since their arrival, the family could breathe, however cautiously.
Doctors warned that recovery could require up to six months of hospitalisation. Their story, while deeply personal, echoes a broader reality within Mulago’s overstretched system.
Hospital administrators have long acknowledged the pressures facing the institution, where high patient numbers collide daily with limited resources. Mulago Hospital spokesperson Gladys Baligonzaki Kajura recently revealed that the hospital is operating at just 57 per cent of its required staffing levels, a gap that inevitably shapes patient experiences.
Within the hospital’s Private Wing, a waiver mechanism exists for financially vulnerable patients. However, accessing it requires formal approval from the Executive Director or a delegated officer, a bureaucratic path that can be especially intimidating for families arriving from remote regions, often without guidance, language support, or social connections.
As Lokwang and Esther begin their daughter’s long treatment journey, others continue to wait. On Friday morning, a woman and her one-year-old baby were found lying in the casualty unit. Witnesses said she had spent days without receiving treatment, relying on food and small donations from sympathetic bystanders. She was eventually attended to later that day.
In Mulago’s corridors, stories like these unfold quietly, often unnoticed, narratives of endurance, vulnerability, and occasional intervention. For some families, help comes just in time. For others, the wait continues, stretching hope thin against the weight of circumstance.
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