By Cliford Ogola
They said they’d build — and build, they did.
But what is a dispensary with no medicine?
What is a clinic with a closed door at midnight…
…when sickness strikes like a thief in the night?
A baby cries — no, she screams in silent pain,
A mother knocks, knocks again, but it’s all in vain.
“You got a card?”
“No.”
“Got a share?”
“No.”
“Then sorry, mama, there’s nowhere to go.”
This is the same building they launched with drums,
With banners and dancers and camera hums.
But now?
The walls are quiet, the halls are cold,
The promise is young, but the hope is old.
They paved paths poorly past places people pass.
Built bridges broken before buses could cross.
Lit lamps low that lost light long ago,
And now the nights are darker than before.
Little girls walk roads where shadows stalk.
Because the bulbs burn out — no spark, no shock.
Security lights that don’t light the lane.
And school begins before the break of day.
You see, sickness has no schedule!
Floods don’t follow forecasts!
Emergencies don’t wait for morning!
So tell me…
Why do services slumber when lives are awake?
Why do we clap at a cut ribbon,
Yet forget the cut dreams?
They promised to plant, but the planted plots are poor.
Promised to pump, but the pipelines pour no more.
Promised to power, but power plays pretend.
Is this development or just a decorated dead end?
We don’t want painted projects with hollow hearts.
We want purpose — working, real and raw.
So next time they come with chairs and chains,
To cut ribbons and give sugarcane speeches,
Ask them:
“Can this cure my child?”
“Can this bridge hold rain?”
“Can this light chase fear away?”
Because we don’t eat promises.
We live — or die — by their delivery.
