Black Pride?

“It isn’t my business to know where Rome is, officer. After all, how many of those white men in Rome(wherever it is located, care to know where Ghana is situated on the world map?”

   With a sardonic grin, expressive of disdain, she continues: “Why is it that we have a penchant for knowing where the white man lives, what he eats or drinks, where he sleeps, and even the names of his dogs?”

   “I’m very impressed about your sense of black pride. But why haven’t you translated that into eradicating the rot in this ward.”

   “What rot.”

   “I mean the corruption; the inefficiency; and the general apathy toward the sick.”

   “I’ve already made it clear to you that I don’t want lose my job. You should bear with me.”

   “Well…well…I forgot to ask your name.”

   “Call me Belinda.”

   “By the way, what’s the name of the chief nurse?

   “She’s Mrs. Emma Brown.”

   As I sit beside the old woman on the floor, and trying to help her through her ordeal, I see a glossy midnight-blue BMW sedan pull up. Without hesitation, two of the nurses inside the emergency ward are rushing out with a stretcher. The lady at the back is quickly put on the stretcher and pushed away into another compartment of the ward. The driver of this sedan never bordered to even step out of the car. He drives away immediately. I only heard him telling one of the nurses that “his boss will be talking to their boss later.”

I realize the lady sent away on the stretcher is white. She didn’t even have to register. Moments before her arrival, I did over here a phone conversation between the chief nurse and someone on the other end: “Where are they now?” She asked. “Are they on their way here? She’ll be fine. We’ll accord her the necessary attention that befits a woman of her caliber.”

   As soon as the officer darted into the restroom to respond to nature’s call, the chief nurse stood up from her chair by the doorway and walked straight to the clerk at the information counter.

To be continued…