Cold Arithmetic at the Gate — When Compassion Becomes a Calculation

My wife had called me into the cramped bedroom of our two-roomed cottage we shared with another couple. "Hona, look at that old couple on the road."
They were walking to the hospital and as we spied on them through the window we felt their pain.
The old man had just managed the agonizing transition from the uneven dirt path to the chipped concrete of the hospital driveway when the Red Cross nurse aid appeared. His uniform was immaculate, the red cross stitched boldly against the white—a promise of succour, a beacon of help.
Yet he did not move. He stood not far from the indifferent security guard, his posture precise, his gaze fixed beyond the couple.
His eyes denied the visible crisis. They were locked in their slow, agonizing pace, the man suspended between his stick and the woman's arm, battling pain for the right to heal. The wife didn't speak, but her plea was written in the slight, desperate tilt of her neck, offering her weariness silently to the emblem of aid.
This was not the passive neglect of the guard, but a deliberate pause, a studied calculation. The path was short, the wheelchair a push away, yet the aid stood still, waiting. He let them wrestle with the gate's threshold, only moving once they were safely inside the hospital grounds.
I stood there, watching. I let the logic of "someone else will do it" soothe my conscience, even as their suffering unfolded before me. I became another spectator, folded into the crowd of inaction. My presence was witness, not relief.
It is easy to condemn the guard's apathy, the nurse aid's calculation, the institution's neglect. Harder is to admit my own hesitation, my own surrender to the syndrome of deferred responsibility.

About the Author:

Lawson Chiwara is a Zimbabwean writer and filmmaker focusing on original scripts and social commentary. Follow his journey as he explores the pulse of the nation through story and film.
What would you have done at that gate? Let me know in the comments below.

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