21/07/2025
In Ghana, your sickness doesn’t always determine your treatment. Sometimes, it’s your status.
In our hospitals and public offices, the real ID card is not your NHIS card or Ghana Card or folder number—it’s how you look, what you wear, and how loudly your iPhone and car keys announce your presence. If you appear poor, uneducated, or "ordinary," your pain may wait in line behind those who look important—even if you arrived first.
Suddenly, it all makes sense why people hold their iPhones in one hand and car keys in the other, even with handbags or trousers with ten pockets. It’s not fashion—it’s survival. It’s a silent way of saying, “I matter too. Don’t ignore me.”
I once accompanied someone to see a "big man." We both drove there in our individual cars. I dressed down in jeans and polo. He was suited up, holding his keys and phone for all to see. Security waved him in like royalty. Me—the one who arranged the meeting—was left at the gate. He had to turn and say, "That’s my boss ooo." Suddenly, eyes widened, gates opened, and respect reappeared.
And it’s not just offices. Even in our hospitals, this dangerous culture thrives.
A friend told me of how they were instantly attended to at UGMC—not because the condition was dire—but because a call came from the Jubilee House. Just one call. Suddenly, attention. Suddenly, urgency. Suddenly, care.
Yet sadly, this same urgency dies when it’s a market woman with a swollen leg or a young boy with a high fever—because they “don’t look the part.”
Ironically, even having a good status sometimes works against you. Some nurses will look at you and mutter, “He thinks he’s too known,” then serve you attitude before service.
We must fix this. Appearances should never dictate care. Every patient deserves dignity—whether they walk in barefoot or in designer shoes.
Because in the end, pain doesn’t know status. And death doesn’t check bank balance.
Let’s build a Ghana where compassion is uniform—and service is based on need, not perception.
Credit : Jay Kwashie
