The ward looks bright at first—polished floors,
Friendly smiles, open doors.
But when visitation falls, the truth appears:
Windows gape, the cold draws near.
No curtains hang, no blankets found,
Only shivers drifting round. Rats parade where hope once slept,
Urine stains where tears are kept.
Toilets choke, refuse to flush,
Filthy floors in endless hush.
Pain is louder here than prayer—
Especially when your own blood
Drops you off
Like trash at the curb.
An old man lies there, one leg gone, next to my mother—
And I’m holding on
For both of them. The other lost without relief,
I heard they amputated him
Without anesthesia.
A fragile boy, a troubled mind,
Wanders in pain he cannot voice. He wears his suffering like a plea,
Forcing all of us to see
What hides beneath the unseen
Labored breaths in quiet defeat.
Fear stares back from hollow eyes,
Where silence roars.
A public hospital.
A hell for the poor.
Lives don’t get restored here—
Just a waiting room
At death’s back door.
Sello Huma is a South African poet, editor, and creative based in the West of Johannesburg. His work bridges the intimate and the political, exploring identity, migration, and the rhythms of everyday life. He is on the Africa Migration Report Poetry Anthology Series Editorial Board. He has been published in renowned journals, including Poetry Ireland; Trumpet 14, Klyntji, Agbowo, Afritondo, Tampered Press, New Coin, and elsewhere. Huma’s poetry is celebrated for its lyrical intensity, cultural depth, and ability to transform personal experience into universal resonance.