Things Fall Apart in Zimbabwe hospitals

When Tendai walked into Karoi Hospital that morning, the air was heavy—not just with the scent of antiseptic, but with silence. A silence that screamed neglect.

He had come to visit his colleague, Musa, who’d been rushed in the night before with severe chest pains. Tendai expected to find him resting, perhaps groggy from painkillers or a night of medical care. Instead, what he saw left him cold.

Musa lay on a bare hospital bed—no mattress, no blanket. Just the thin metal frame and his trembling body curled against it. His eyes opened slowly, and in them Tendai saw pain—not just the physical kind, but the quiet ache of abandonment.

“Where is your blanket?” Tendai asked, trying to hide the tremble in his voice.

“There wasn’t one,” Musa whispered. “No mattress either. And… they said they have no medicine.”

Tendai didn’t speak. He just turned and walked out—straight to his car. From the back seat, he pulled the thick blue blanket his wife had packed for their son’s soccer trip. He returned and gently draped it over Musa, careful not to touch the angry bruises spreading across his chest.

He took a picture, not out of cruelty, but because people needed to see. The truth couldn’t stay buried beneath government reports and empty promises.

Hospitals were supposed to heal. But here, things were falling apart—quietly, cruelly, and in full view.

**names changed to protect the identity of the real persons

📸@Citizensmovrad