You complain. I complain.

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How terrible.  You’ve got the flu. You’re having a bad hair day.  Feeling a little over weight? Your printer is out of ink.  You’ve lost your pen, once again.  You were so extremely tired at work today.  Oh my, what terrible weather, it sure is chilly.  Your nose is too big? You don’t like your legs.  You can’t afford to buy food at Woolworths. The power is out.   You’re not going to have water for a few hours.  You have to get up so very early for work in the morning.  The trip between your front door and the car so very cold and awful. You’re out of milk.  DSTV isn’t working? Petrol is going up.  You spend a fortune on those lazy car guards every month. Oh no, a rainy day.  Medical aid rates ar so high. Things didn’t go as planned. You overslept. You feel nauseous, ate too much? Your yoghurt is sour. Your bread is stale. You can only buy one CD, one jacket, one pair of jeans, one pair of sunglasses this month. How very terrible. 

You complain.  I complain. Every day. With our heaters and our beautiful fire places.  Our electrical blankets. Our running hot water and electricity. Our medical aids. Our pension. Our cars. Our houses. Our food filled fridges.  Our money filled bank accounts. Our love filled homes.

We forget. We forget about the man in Ward 16.  The man who hasn’t been washed for a week, his vile stench nauseating to him.  The screaming pleading pain stricken man who receives no help because no body cares.  The man with fly covered legs, too weak to swat them away.   The man dying of TB of Aids who waits at the hospital for 4 hours only to hear that he is waiting in the wrong place.  The mother who’s baby has lost his nose and has a hole in his palate from the unstoppable necrosis that has destroyed his once beautiful little face. The clever little girl who has been burnt all over her face and body, her dreams along with it. The man sleeping on the side walk.  The lady who has an annual income of R3000. The man who has lived a full and wonderful life, 88 years old, who dies. In ward 16. 

You complain. I complain.  How terrible. 
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