When War Broke Out: The First Battle with GBS :Chapter 1

When War Broke Out: The First Battle with GBS

There is war in my body.

Reading Sun Tzu’s The Art of War takes you to military strategy school. I’m no expert in warfare, but it’s common sense that war means fighting an opponent — whether it’s guerrilla tactics or any other form of combat.

Wikipedia defines war as “a state of armed conflict between societies, generally marked by extreme aggression, destruction, and mortality, involving regular or irregular military forces.” Total war even extends beyond legitimate military targets, causing massive civilian suffering.

For my story, I loosely define war as a battle between two opposing sides.

I had never longed to simply walk until I woke up on August 27, 2017, with heavy legs and pins and needles under my feet. Suddenly, my legs refused to respond to basic functions — lifting, walking, bending — as if they had betrayed me. Moving became a mission; lifting my legs, walking around, doing basic chores felt like climbing a mountain. Confusion and worry set in. That moment made me realize something fundamental: true wealth lies in good health.

I had planned to go to work the next day but doubted if I could even walk to the bus terminus. When a colleague messaged me on WhatsApp, I finally confided that I was sick. She advised me to visit the clinic — and though I’m not one to feign illness or laze around, I knew I needed help.

The next morning, I woke at 4:30 am. While bathing, I realized the extent of my sickness. Every movement was a struggle. I took a long, wobbly walk to the taxi rank, wondering what people thought as I staggered down the road. This was my first hospital visit in over 20 years.

At the clinic, I was assigned patient number 94 shortly after 6:30 am. After waiting for what felt like two hours, I finally reached the counter. The staff created my file at Witkoppen Clinic. I then went for weighing — 76.9 kg, about three kilos lighter than usual. I sat under a tree alongside other patients, some clearly sicker than me, waiting for an HIV test, which was mandatory before treatment. When my test came back negative, I wasn’t relieved; pain and exhaustion were all I could feel as I dragged my legs from pillar to post.

Next, I joined a stagnant queue to have my blood pressure taken. The nurses seemed slow, which frustrated me given the long line. My blood pressure was high, but no one explained the numbers. I wasn’t worried about blood pressure before — this was new territory.

Finally, I reached a young man who directed me to another queue for the doctor. When I was called in, I was surprised to find it was a male nurse — “Sister in Charge” said the purple door. The nurse diagnosed me with lack of exercise and dehydration despite my protests. I told him I ran daily and drank 8 to 10 liters of water. He dismissed my concerns and prescribed painkillers, though I wasn’t in pain. After more waiting, I left the clinic with tablets but no answers.

Outside, my legs felt heavier. I debated whether to take a taxi or walk the short distance to Fourways Crossing. I chose to walk, recalling Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk to Freedom — except there was no freedom for me, only a long, painful trek.

At Clicks pharmacy, I asked the pharmacist for help. She urged me to see a doctor immediately. My worry peaked. My colleague Busi helped me find the nearest Unjani Clinic at Diepsloot Mall. I found out the clinic was run by nurses, but a doctor was available at the mall. Dragging myself to Dr. M’s office, I was greeted warmly. After explaining my symptoms, Dr. M examined me and took my blood pressure — 177/100, dangerously high. He advised rest and gave me medication, also providing his number should I worsen.

This was the beginning of my battle — a war inside my body I never expected, and a journey that would change my life forever.