The sun was blazing overhead, mixing with the noise of vehicles and the chatter of driver’s mates. Sheba was in Kasoa, a town known for commerce and sometimes trickery, but that was the least of her concerns today. She was preparing for the long tro-tro ride back to school in Kumasi, earbuds in, blasting music only she could hear, trying to stay alert.

After a short wait, she finally got on board, ready for the five-hour journey to Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology. Senior coursemates had warned her this semester would be hectic, so she wanted to be as prepared as possible. That was when she overheard a familiar call in Twi, “These are U.K. drugs. They cure everything, from typhoid to candidiasis, worms, and skin infections, the medicine hawker shouted. This drug knows all the bacterial area codes and destroys them in your body.”

He had a board full of graphic images showing worms and severe skin lesions. But what caught Sheba’s attention were the before-and-after pictures showing the drug working. Unlike the usual herbal remedies or creams, this was a tablet, a classical drug one might find in a pharmacy.

The hawker continued with personal testimonies about the drug’s benefits. Sheba remained skeptical until a middle-aged woman carrying a child approached. She asked for two strips, explaining that her whole family never fell sick because of this drug. She described how it had cured her urinary infections and candidiasis. Another woman stepped forward and said the drug had cured her husband’s mysterious illness when hospitals had failed.

Finally, the hawker turned to Sheba. “You are going to school, right? You will need this for all your health needs” , he said in Twi. Sheba could not resist. She bought two strips for 70 cedis. The middle-aged woman congratulated her and said she had not wasted her money.

Sheba read the name on the packaging, “Cepro-Flosin” . She struggled to pronounce it but remembered the hawker’s instructions. Take two tablets every other day, he had said. He told her the drug was called “Cipro” and that she could search online to find out more.

Once she arrived on campus, she looked up the drug and was relieved to see it did what the hawker claimed. That evening, she took her first dose with lukewarm water. Over the next two weeks, she finished the strip and continued with the next. She felt healthier than ever. She even went from pharmacy to pharmacy trying to find the exact brand, following the hawker’s advice instead of consulting a pharmacist.

Months passed. One day, after eating waakye, she felt unwell. Usually, this food never caused her trouble, but this time it did. Confident that Cipro would protect her, she increased her dose to four pills a day, but nothing improved.

Weeks went by with fever, headaches, stomach pain, and nausea. Finally, she went to the hospital and was diagnosed with typhoid fever. She was given Ciprofloxacin, but even with proper medication, she grew worse. The germs causing her typhoid had become resistant because of the previous self-medication. The tablets the hawker sold had been the same antibiotic, but the wrong brand or dosage had allowed the bacteria to survive and adapt.

Sheba was hospitalized for several days. Doctors gave her a stronger antibiotic and placed her on a strict treatment plan before she finally recovered. They explained how dangerous antimicrobial resistance can be and why self-medicating or taking advice from unlicensed sellers can be life-threatening.

Sheba learned a hard lesson. Shortcuts with health often come at a high price.

Author:

Jerrie Evangs