Not Time Yet

The Ward of Stories

The hospital ward was never truly silent. Machines hummed, shoes squeaked across the polished floor and occasionally, laughter or groans broke the monotony. Amara had come to expect the rhythm of the ward, the rise and fall of voices, the interruptions of trolleys and monitors, the unpredictable currents of human lives gathered together in one space.

But that morning, as she stepped into Room 7, she was met with something she hadn’t anticipated: noise.

“Amara!” A booming voice drew her eyes to the far bed. A tall man with long dreadlocks tied loosely into a bun raised his hands in mock reverence. “The angel herself! Finally, we’re saved from boredom!”

The other patients laughed, except one. David sat upright on his bed, quiet, observing.

“Leave the poor girl alone, Mandla,” said Joseph, a wiry man on the next bed. His voice was gravelly, and he leaned forward like every sentence was an invitation to a story. “She’s not here to rescue you from boredom. She’s here to keep me alive long enough to get a cold beer again.”

The room chuckled, and even Mandla slapped his knee.

“Beer!” Joseph exclaimed, shaking his head. “Hospitals are cruel places. Imagine lying here, watching your liver cry while your mouth stays dry. Tragedy!”

“Joseph,” Amara said, trying to maintain her composure, “The only thing you’re getting today is water. And probably more medication.”

Peter, the fourth man, adjusted his pillow and gave Amara a slow, easy grin. His hair was cropped close, his jaw clean shaven, and though his body was frail, his eyes held mischief. “She can give me anything she wants. Water, pills, I don’t mind. As long as she brings it herself.”

The other men groaned at once.

“Ah, there he goes again,” Mandla muttered. “Peter the Casanova. Watch your heart, Amara, he’s been eyeing every nurse who steps in here.”

Peter raised his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, hey, don’t make me the villain. I respect all the ladies here. But a man can still admire beauty, can’t he?”

Amara rolled her eyes, hiding a smile. She had heard her instructors warn about “difficult patients,” but this—this was something else. This was a room of personalities larger than life.

“Alright, gentlemen,” she said, pulling her blood pressure cuff from her bag. “Jokes later, vitals first.”

The Morning Round

Mandla stretched his arm out dramatically. “Go ahead, Nurse Amara, but be gentle. My veins are sensitive. Delicate, like my feelings.”

Joseph let out a wheezy laugh. “Delicate feelings? You? Don’t let him fool you, Nurse. This one once wrestled a cow in the village!”

“It wasn’t a cow,” Mandla protested. “It was a bull. And I won.”

“Only because the bull got tired!” Joseph shouted, and the room dissolved into laughter again.

Amara tightened the cuff around Mandla’s arm. He groaned theatrically as the air filled it. “Ah! Pain! Suffering! Nurse, you’re killing me!”

“Hold still,” she said firmly, though she felt her lips twitching. “You’re fine.”

“Fine?” Mandla gasped. “You mean handsome? Yes, I know.”

Peter snorted. “Dream on, dread man. You’re not the handsome one here.”

Joseph cut in with a loud sigh. “Gentlemen, please. The nurse doesn’t care about your faces. She only cares if our hearts are still beating.”

“I care about all of you,” Amara said quietly, almost to herself.

For a moment, the room softened. Even Joseph stopped his chatter long enough to meet her eyes.

David, still silent, shifted slightly. His lips moved as if he almost wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

When Amara finished with Mandla, she moved to Joseph. He wouldn’t stop talking as she checked his vitals.

“You know, I wasn’t always like this,” he said as she wrapped the cuff around his arm. “I used to be strong. Worked in the mines, lifted heavy loads. Women liked me then. But beer......ah, beer was my friend and my enemy. It took my strength and gave me stories. And now it gives me this bed.”

Amara pressed her stethoscope gently against his arm. “Keep still.”

He chuckled. “I can’t keep still. My tongue has legs.”

Peter leaned over. “Your tongue has legs but no manners.”

Another wave of laughter rolled through the room. Only David sat still, eyes fixed on the blanket pulled across his lap.

A Room Alive

By mid-morning, Amara had done all her checks. The room was still buzzing with chatter, Mandla leading the jokes, Joseph spinning stories of past fights and bars, and Peter throwing in compliments whenever a nurse passed.

When a young student nurse named Lydia entered with a tray of medications, Mandla called out, “Ah! Another angel has come!”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Focus, please. Who’s first for meds?”

Joseph pointed to himself. “Me, me. The man of the hour. Give me the strongest one.”

“You already have the strongest one,” Lydia muttered, placing pills into his hand.

Samson, another student nurse, followed with charts. He was tall, serious, and barely looked at the patients as he ticked boxes.

Amara noticed the difference at once. Lydia and Samson did their tasks efficiently, but quickly moved on. They were students like her, but they didn’t linger. They didn’t laugh at Mandla’s jokes, or listen to Joseph’s rambling.

Amara, on the other hand, found herself adjusting blankets, listening to Joseph’s endless stories, reminding Peter gently to keep his eyes on his food, and nodding along when Mandla launched into another tale about his village days.

“You spend too much time here,” Lydia whispered to her once. “We’re supposed to do the checks and move on.”

Amara smiled faintly. “Sometimes this is part of the care.”

David’s First Smile

It was during lunch that something shifted.

Joseph was complaining loudly about the soup. “Tasteless! This soup is punishment. Nurse, bring me salt! No, bring me a chicken!”

Peter chuckled. “You should be grateful. At least you can chew. Some of us can barely eat.”

Mandla raised his spoon like a king’s scepter. “Silence, all of you! Let us honor the chef’s masterpiece. This, my friends, is soup of the gods!”

The men laughed again, Joseph shaking his head, Peter rolling his eyes.

And then it happened.

Amara glanced at David and saw it. His mouth curved upward, slowly, hesitantly. It wasn’t a full laugh, but it was a smile. Small, fragile, but real.

Her chest warmed. For the first time since she’d met him, David wasn’t just watching. He was part of it.

“You see?” Amara said softly, addressing the whole room. “Even David agrees. The soup is a masterpiece.”

The others cheered, Mandla pumping his fist, Joseph groaning dramatically.

David shook his head, but the smile lingered a moment longer.

Evening Reflections

When the ward quieted that evening, Amara sat by the window with her notebook. She scribbled quickly, capturing the day before it slipped away.

Healing comes in many voices: the loud, the funny, the restless, and the silent. Sometimes hope is hidden in laughter, even in pain.

She looked across the room. Mandla was already snoring, Joseph still mumbling to himself before sleeping, Peter winking at a nurse passing the corridor, and David...... David was lying still, eyes closed, his face softer than she had ever seen.

He is not as alone as he thinks, Amara thought. And maybe, neither am I.