One miracle and we save Yeri's father's life!

The sun in the village of B., lost in the endless savannah of Saloum, was beginning to set, the shadows were lengthening, and we didn't have much time left. "We'll soon say goodbye to the families of the two Talibés who stayed behind in Dakar,'' Sylvestre, a volunteer from Janghi, tells me.

All day long, he, Lala (another Janghi volunteer) and I moved along the sandy tracks from one village to another, to meet the families of the Taliban children whom Janghi had managed to enrol in school in Dakar, trying to give them a better chance than the one offered by the Koranic school, Daara, to which their parents had sent them.

Janghi wants to support all rights, even reunions with affections.

Thanks to Janghi, we have also tried to improve their extremely difficult living conditions, which depend entirely on what they manage to collect by begging in the streets of Dakar. Paying for their place on the bus so that they can go home with the Daara manager (the religious teacher to whom the children are entrusted by their families) on the occasion of the annual religious festival, Gamou, and see their parents again after years away is part of Janghi's actions to support the basic rights of these children. And this year, we at Janghi wanted to join them.
And here we are with Mandao Ndao's mother. Her child did not come this year because the bus was full and he came the year before.

His mother welcomes us with joy and after a little chat she takes us on a tour of the village.
At a certain point, I see on the ground, at the edge of the sandy path, a little boy, not even two years old, playing half-naked alone. I look at him and recognise the eyes and the smile of Yeli, a little talibé who also stayed in Dakar. "He must be Yeli's little brother," I ask our escort. " Yes ,' she replies, 'but his mother isn't here, she left this morning, but we can go and say hello to his grandmother.

Our volunteer doctor discovers that Yeri's father, who is in great pain, has a serious infection. But he has no means to go to a treatment centre.

The grandmother welcomes us with a big smile but quickly begins to tell us how angry she is about the absence of Yeri's mother, her son's wife. So our companion asks her to take us to say hello to Yeli's father.
We find him alone, locked in his hut at the end of the village. Our companion manages, not without difficulty, to open the tin door.
He was slumped in a chair, looking pained, one leg swollen and raised astride the handle of the chair. He apologises for not being able to get up and greet us.
I ask him what's wrong, and while he explains that for four days he has been unable to move or sleep because of the pain, I touch his swollen, hot foot. He has a high fever. Since I am a Janghi Volunteer Doctor, I understand that he has a serious infection from a small wound that has not been treated. I ask him why he has not gone to the nearest health facility.
"I am waiting for it to pass," he tells me, "the health facility is far from the village and I have nothing to pay for transport and treatment and even if I had something I would use it to feed the family.

Then he puts his head in his hands to hide his face and looks down: "Ineeded this disease too.... I don't know what to do anymore, I can't even give the minimum to my sons, even for the last one I don't even have the means to circumcise him... he'll end up in the Daara in Dakar too...".

We have to do something. 

With Lala and Sylvestre , we decide to give him money for transport to Kaffrine - a Janghi contribution to the health support projects. He will be able to go to the nearest town, where there is a hospital and he will be able to receive medication and take antibiotics. I explain to him that his illness is serious and he absolutely must go the next morning and keep the money for treatment.
We say goodbye to him and head silently for the car.

We were not at all serene. I knew very well that this was not the way to solve the problem. Spending another night with that fever and pain was hard and risky. Transport was another big problem. It was a remote village, far from any other population centre, and there were never any cars because the sandy road was hardly passable. The only means of transport would have been an unstable and uncomfortable wooden cart, pulled by a horse or, more likely, a donkey, which would have taken forever to reach the town.

I knew that the only thing to do was to take him with us in the car. But it was late, the sun had set and before we reached Kaffrine it would be dark and I had difficulty driving in the dark. Besides afterwards I would not be able to find the village where we were staying because it was very far from Kaffrine, always on sandy tracks.
I did not know what to do and I felt worse and worse.
I opened the doors of the car to let Lala and Sylvestre in but I stood there looking towards Yeli's father's hut a few meters back, at the end of the village where the savannah with the big baobabs begins.
My conscience wouldn't leave me alone and I kept wondering what to do.

But in the villages of Senegal, miracles still exist!

And suddenly I have a vision......to the left after that last poor hut, from behind the big baobab where you can't even see the trace of a sandy path, out of nowhere what do I see?
An all-whiteambulance with Kaffrine Health District written on it, moving slowly towards us. I crinkle my eyes. The sun and my remorse must have played a trick on me because now I have visions... But visions or no visions, I step in front of it to stop it.

She stopped and a gentleman got out. It is not a vision. It is real.
I take out my doctor's card, show it to him and say that there is a seriously ill person who needs to be taken to hospital.
The man in the ambulance tells me to call him and to hurry up because they are taking another seriously ill person to the hospital in Kaffrine.
Our escort ran to get Yeri's dad. His grandmother, his mother who will leave with him, is also supporting him.

The whole village rushes. They had never seen an ambulance pass by.

They lay him down on the cot. They close the doors and the ambulance goes through the village to disappear on the other side.
I stand open-mouthed watching the vision recede.....
It is thefirst time an ambulance has passed through that village and it passed that very day, that very moment, at that very place, next to Yeri's father's hut and next to the car where I was standing trying to manage my consciousness.

I understand that it is a miracle. A miracle linked to the wonderful energy that still exists in certain remote villages in the African savannah, where people live with nature and spirituality.
I had spent the whole night before at the Gamou religious ceremony, amidst religious songs, prayers, blessings and people in transept. I had gone there to please and respond to the invitation of the person in charge of Daara because he had shown great confidence in our projects by sending all the Taliban who wanted to to the School of Enfance et Paix.
I had spent the whole day among baobabs, huts and people who, despite the difficulties, knew how to maintain dignity and hope.
I am not religious, but the energy you feel in these places makes you understand why miracles are still possible here.

Article written by our Volunteer Honorary Member Maria Laura Mastrogiacomo Mbow, an Italian doctor who has been working in Senegal for more than 40 years.