Zimbabwe healthcare has turned into a death sentence for the poor

My heart bleeds, and I don’t even know where to begin. I am living with Chronic Kidney Disease (CKD), and that means most of my days are spent inside the walls of Parirenyatwa Hospital, specifically in the B10 Renal Unit.

Just last month, while waiting for my dialysis session, water was dripping steadily into the ward. Water. Inside a renal unit. A place that’s supposed to be sterile, free of germs and bacteria. Yet there we were — patients hooked to machines meant to keep us alive, while puddles formed around us. The environment was not just undignified — it was dangerous.

And the nurses? They cut your dialysis hours short unless you pay them something. This, even though dialysis at Parirenyatwa is supposed to be free. They also sell consumables that we are supposed to receive at no cost — gloves, syringes, IV lines. The other day the whole hospital had no strapping to secure my cannula. The nurse just told me plainly, “Go back to the pharmacy and buy it yourself.”

I have so much I could say about that place. So much pain.

Dialysis should be treated as an emergency — your blood needs to be cleaned regularly or you die. But at Parirenyatwa, the urgency is gone. The nurses are slow, distracted, and sometimes seem indifferent. It’s as if they don’t realize that every minute of delay could mean death for someone.

The machines? Most of them are old. Some barely work. Others leak. And in that same unsanitary ward, where water drips from the ceiling, where hygiene is a distant dream, you’re supposed to sit for four hours with needles in your arms while your blood is filtered. How can you not end up with an infection? How can you not suffer blood clots?

If you try to go private, it’s \$150 or more per session. I need three sessions a week. Who has that kind of money? I’m just a vendor — I sell what I can, when I can. My entire income couldn’t cover even a week of private dialysis.

And on top of all this, you still have to buy medications. They prescribe things that are not available at the hospital pharmacy, and the private ones are charging in USD. Meanwhile, your body is weak, your heart is tired, and your spirit is constantly on the verge of breaking.

Every day I cry. What kind of life is this? What future do we have when healthcare has turned into a death sentence for the poor? I ask God every night to remember us — to rescue us from this pain.

We are not asking for luxury. We are just asking to be treated like human beings.

***This letter was written by a dialysis patient at Parirenyatwa hospital