There is a patient waiting area at the hospital, in the quadrangle of the central pharmacy that I pass through every day.
Each time I enter or leave the main building, I see new faces.
Each time I have to go to the store and supply office or retrieve a key from the office of the head of the department of pharmacy, I see more faces—a few or too many.
Some raise their necks each time someone passes.
Whether they are having a conversation with someone, or they are engrossed in the obsessive dopamine deluge from their phones, they look up by default.
It is almost as if the bones in their neck are triggered to move as soon as they sense a figure passing.
Every day, I see people huddled up in the hallway, on the chairs, near the walls and the main door.
They are all doing the same thing—waiting.
Today, I stood for a moment in the patient waiting area to receive a call and for a moment, I didn’t see any difference between them and me.
I was also waiting, like them.
It is called the waiting area for a reason. In some life scenarios, the waiting period.
This is the time when everyone reminds you of patience. They tell you it is a fruit of the spirit like you don’t already know.
They assure you of its long-term benefits and there are usually a lot of examples that accompany this fact.
Even Suru in Asake’s album adds another stark reminder as if all the reminders are not enough.
Again, I am reminded of James Clear's newsletter about the right way to be patient, the active form of patience.
I mentally count the months again. This is August. A year will soon be over.
I am waiting. You are waiting. The patients are waiting.
Sometimes, the patients don’t get what they want because the drugs are out of stock or the hospital doesn’t have the quantity they need.
Sometimes, we have an alternative but they are obstinately rigid.
Some patients can’t wait because of the crowd and so, they leave amidst sighs and distant murmurs that scream frustration.
Some patients come late, too late and so the main door is locked or the pharmacist in the unit is ready to go home.
Then, they are asked to come the next day, directed to another unit, or told to buy the drugs outside.
While waiting, some people press their phones and I can tell from the sound of the videos on their phones that they are either scrolling through Facebook or Instagram.
Some people look aimlessly. Some roam.
Some go into a long rigmarole about what is happening over the phone with either a friend or a relative.
Some cultivate light banter. Others join.
But some people never wait. They are so tense—the impatience sizzling in their eyes and the corners of their lips.
Sometimes they are rude. They look at you like everything happening is your fault.
Some patients ask if they are next because they are tired of waiting.
Others interject without any ounce of courtesy. Aunty answer me now.
Some don’t want to wait, but most of them don’t have a choice.
They wait.
The pharmacist is waiting for them.
The woman at the cashpoint is waiting for them.
We are all waiting and while we don’t even know if we will get what we want, we still wait.
Isn’t that what the waiting area is for?
Earth is a waiting area.
''They tell you it is a fruit of the spirit like you don’t already know.''
who's they?