Its Time For The Fridge Tour Mother Fucker’s Disclaimer: I Have Two Fridge’s. I Made Them Battle To Decide Which Fridge I Would Give An Tour Of. This Is The Basement Fridge. This Salty Oaf Mad He Dont Have An Ice Dispencer Like The Kitchen Fridge But Guess What He Full Of Surprises, And He Is Bout To Rock Your World.
Hear It Is.
Hear We Fucking Go.
Oh Geez, Get A Load Of This Fucking Action.
The Only Thing In This Fridge Is Drinks and Butter. Welcome To The Hydration Chamber Mother Fucker.
Theres The Apple Cider. But Dont Be Fooled
Theres Something Vary Special About This Box Of Apple Cider’s.
MOTHER FUCKER, IT’S WHERE I HIDE MY CHICKEN COLD CUTS. You Will Be Telling, Everyone About This Fucking LIFE HACK. Hide Your Fucking Cold Cuts. No One Will Be The Wiser.
Well Thats It For This Fridge Tour Be Sure To Like COmment Subscribe
Mogadishu, Somalia - Unlicensed clinics and pharmacies with unqualified staff have been dispencing counterfeit and expired medicines that are making people sick and endangering the lives of Somalis.
The sick can be seen walking towards the hospital at dawn, before any other souls venture out onto the streets of Mogadishu. They move slowly, placing one shaky limb before the other, accompanied by the cool ocean breeze and the sound of crowing roosters.
Those with a dollar to spare take a tuk-tuk. They are all heading to a high-walled guarded compound in the relatively well-off neighbourhood in Mogadishu’s Hodan district.
They are worse than bombs because a bomb kills 10 or 20 people. But these drugs can kill hundreds of people and no one will hear about it.
Dr Osman Mohamud Dufle
These latest victims of Mogadishu’s thriving counterfeit and expired medication industry hope to get treatment at one of the few licensed hospitals in the city.
They are also the lucky ones.
Many people who are sickened by the dubious medication do not make it this far.
Every morning more than 50 patients gather at Doctor Osman Mohamud Dufle’s specialist hospital. Several among them are usually people who have suffered complications caused by the expired or counterfeit medication prescribed to them by unqualified health workers.
Osman Mohamud Muhumed was one of them and had come to this private hospital to seek treatment.
The 52-year-old had sought treatment for what appeared to be malaria, but ended up bedridden for six months after taking medication given to him by doctors at a clinic near his home just outside the city.
He could barely stand without assistance. Saggy skin with hardly any flesh shrouded his body, his breathing heavy and laboured as he recounted his story.
“I went to a clinic near my home. They gave me what they said was medicine,” he told Al Jazeera.
“At first the medicines did not work and then as I continued taking them as they advised me, it made my situation worse. They kept on telling me to continue taking them. It got so bad; the drugs almost killed me,” Muhumed said, his skeletal body looking lost on the hospital stretcher.
No one really knows how many patients fall victim to expired or counterfeit medication in Somalia.
In this seaside city of more than a million people, there is a clinic or pharmacy on almost every street corner. Most are unregistered and employ unqualified staff. Colourful murals on their walls and offers of cheap medicine help maintain a steady stream of customers.
Muhumed’s liver now barely functions - his body had to be cleansed of the toxic concoction he had ingested; his kidneys are not in much better shape.
Numbing the senses
Not far from the hospital where Muhumed was being treated, Nuurto Hassan Mursal sat with her palms on her cheeks and her legs crossed.
Mursal, a mother of 10, was handicapped by taking what she thought was medication to treat her severe migraine. She looked visibly sick as she sat in her crumbling two-bedroom house made of brick walls and a tin roof.
The medication had killed off all sensation in her feet and had covered her body with round white blisters that later turned to patches the size of golf balls.
But she was too traumatised to make another trip to any of the city’s hospitals.
“I can’t feel anything. I wouldn’t know if I walked on fire,” Mursal said. “It is like my feet are not part of my body,” she said pinching her feet to emphasise her point.
After her experience, hospitals and pharmacies are the last place she visits if she feels unwell. She prefers prayer to medication in seeking relief from an illness.
Dean patted his pockets expectantly, looking around the arcade which was mostly inhabited by children a third his size. Still, he bore an uncanny resemblance to all of them. His smile lit up the room more than the bulbs lining the ski ball machine that he had been standing in front of for the last half hour. He finally got to be a kid.
“Hey, do you have any more tokens?” Dean asked, eyebrows raised at me. And if were he child, that left me to be his parent. Right now my beloved, adopted son looked at me like a junkie desperate for a fix.
“That’s it. You’ve officially been cut off,” I decided. His face dropped into an annoyed frown. I couldn’t stop a laugh from slipping through my lips.
He left and knelt down in front of the black token dispencer. It sucked in his bills and spat out another handful of shining, gold coins, which he carried back over to me. I sat stradled around the back of a chair, chin resting on my arms, lips quirked slighlty as I watched Dean feed the ski ball machine with more tokens.
“Dean, there is no way you are going to get a thousand tickets,” I told him, but he paid no mind to me. Eyes focused on the target, he rolled another ball smoothly out of his large hands. It hit off the side of the white plastic rim and fell down into the lower hole. Ten Points.
“But I want the damn slinky,” he groaned, obviously frusterated. He had been after that dumb, giant rainbow slinky ever since he saw some little girl walk past with one. He really was just like a kid. I rolled my eyes and dismounted from my chair.
“Move over, princess, let me show you how it’s done.” I grabbed the dingy ball from his hand and pushed him out of the way lightly.
“Oh, like you could do so much better.”
The ball flew out off my finger tips, rolled on the lane and soared to the top left courner. The machine dinged and the lights danced up and down the alley. I turned to face Dean with a smug look. He stared at me incredulously.
“How did you do that?” he asked.
I shruged. “Let’s just say Sam wasn’t the only one that got dropped off at these dumb arcade chains as a kid. I got pretty good at beating all the games while Dad was out killing who-knows-what.”
The children around us shrieked with laughter, drool practically dripping from thier chins as they ran around the different machines. Some of them cried, their wails echoing throughout the building, but most were too absorbed by the flashing, florecent bulbs to notice. And for myself, I was too captivated by Deans smile to see anything else.