At the center of the road, a woman lay crumpled on the ground.
Her clothes were dusty, one shoe missing, her arm twisted awkwardly beneath her. Her face was pale. Her breathing was shallow. Too shallow.
“Was she hit by a car?” someone asked.
“Maybe she just collapsed,” another voice said.
“Someone should call for help.”
But no one moved.
They watched the way people watch a fire from a safe distance—interested, detached, unwilling to get burned.
Yaw froze.
For a second, the market vanished. In its place came another scene: a hospital bench, his mother’s weak hand in his, his own child’s voice begging, ignored.
He clenched his fists.
If he walked away now, he would become one of the people he had hated all his life.
He took one step forward. Then another.
“What are you doing?” someone asked.
Yaw knelt beside the woman.
“Can you hear me?” he asked softly.
No response.
He looked up at the crowd. “Help me carry her.”
Silence.
One man looked away. Another shrugged. Someone muttered, “I have work.” Another said, “This is not my problem.”
The words struck him because they were so familiar. He had heard them before, in different tones, from different mouths, but always meaning the same thing:
Let someone else suffer.
Yaw looked down at the woman again. Then, without another word, he slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees.
She was heavier than he expected, not just in body, but in what she suddenly meant.
He lifted.
The crowd parted—not to help, only to make room.
“Where are you taking her?” someone shouted.
“To the hospital,” Yaw said.
A few people laughed quietly.
“As if they’ll treat her without money,” one man said.
Yaw didn’t answer. He had heard that before too. He knew it might be true. But walking away would be worse.
He carried her out of the market and toward the main road. The midday sun hammered down. Traffic screamed past. Heat rippled off the asphalt. His arms burned. His breath came harder with every step.
He shouted for help. Cars slowed just enough to look, then sped away. A taxi rolled near. Hope rose in him.
“Please!” Yaw cried. “Hospital!”
The driver leaned out, took one look, and said, “I don’t carry problems.”
Then he drove off.
Yaw kept walking.
A group of men stood under the shade of a kiosk. He approached them, desperate now.
“Please help me carry her. Just to the hospital.”
They looked at one another.
“If she dies on the way, they’ll blame us,” one said.
“You don’t even know who she is,” said another.
Yaw swallowed. “I don’t need to know her. She needs help.”
They stared at him as if he were foolish.
Then one of them shrugged. “Then carry her yourself.”
Yaw nodded once. “Thank you,” he said, though they had done nothing, and he walked on.
At last he saw the hospital gate ahead, white walls shimmering in the heat.
By the time he reached it, his arms were shaking violently.
Two security guards stepped forward.
“Stop,” one said. “Where are you going?”
“To the hospital,” Yaw gasped. “She needs help.”
The second guard looked at the unconscious woman, then at Yaw. “Do you have money?”
Yaw hesitated.
Leave a Comment