Vaccination And Other Stories

The queue is long. Of course it is long. It is a queue in Namibia. In my time here I have never seen a short queue. I even wonder if there is such a thing. Whether it is at the till of a shop, in the municipality waiting to pay utility bills, or in a bank’s foyer – I have observed lines to come in two varieties: nonexistent or long. This one is the latter. It is at the Central Hospital. People lean against the wall for support; they look for shade wherever they can find it; some sit on the sidewalk to rest their legs. Those who were smart enough to bring umbrellas (you can always spot the expert queuers) hide beneath them, and those who remembered to bring chairs (truly accomplished Namibian queuers) fold them out, take their seats in resignation and distract themselves with newspapers or their cellphones. There is one man who has brought an umbrella, chair, reading material and snacks – he is the real MVP.

The queue does what every line of its kind does: as more people make their journey to the hospital to receive their first or second shot of the Sinopharm or AstraZeneca COVID-19 vaccines, the line gets shorter at the front and longer at the back. I am somewhere close to what would be the front. Despite my early arrival, there was a healthy number of people already waiting. That is another thing I have noticed: it is almost impossible to be the first in line – there always seem to be other early birds who are also out for their worms. Nonetheless, I am in the queue and it is long.

This is another fact about queues: while you are queuing you hear things. Things you are not meant to hear but hear anyway, things that you are meant to hear but would prefer not to, and things you want to hear but do not.

I am not, for example, meant to hear the conversation the man has with his significant other over the phone. What starts with a casual greeting with all the necessary petnaming becomes a heated argument about errands that are not being attended to. The man explains: he is in a long queue. No dice from the other end of the line. The call concludes with a huffy silence. We make eye contact – him knowing I heard him, him wishing I did not. I shrug my shoulders in a no-good-deed-goes-unpunished kind of way. He gives me a well-what-are-you-gonna-do sigh. We find other distractions to occupy us as we continue our monotonous existence in the queue. We are both going to be here a while and we know it; he will need to stockpile apologies for later.

Things you are not meant to hear but hear anyway, things that you are meant to hear but would prefer not to, and things you want to hear but do not.

The list of the things you are meant to hear but would rather not is quite extensive. There is a woman telling another woman about a new report she read about the effectiveness of the vaccines at high volume. The report is nonsensical, but its dubious information is shared with misguided conviction. As it grows in incredibility some people walk a little away to distance themselves from ludicrousness. The woman who is being told about the report excuses herself to take a phone call and takes a few paces for privacy. When she finishes she does not return to her place, preferring to tinker on her cellphone. There is a man telling a newcomer that, ag, ja, this COVID, hey, I don’t really believe in it but I just thought I’d get this just in case. As one, the queue turns to stare at him. He lowers his voice sheepishly. Further back, there is a group of university students debating the new J. Cole album and how, ne kau, he is hands down the best rapper alive. He is not. But when you are in a long queue you have to listen to the falsities of youth and hold your peace. And there are two people talking politics with each other. Quite predictably there is talk of the raging corruption, an understandable complaint; but the Apartheid nostalgia makes me will the queue to move alongjust so I do not have to hear nonsense about the good old days that were good for some but not for others.

There is only one thing I want to hear but do not: the nurses calling the next batch of people into the hospital so that they can be screened and vaccinated. That rare and blessed occurrence that heralds a forward shuffle in the queue is too rare for my liking. I watch and listen for it to no avail. The queue gets long and longer. I hear stories about how closely the virus has touched a family. A cousin or a friend has been taken. I hear about lost jobs, cancelled holidays, deliveries delayed at the border, and extended academic semesters.

A nurse comes out.

The queue snaps to attention. The promise of movement straightens spines. Progress, however small, is on the horizon.

“We are going for lunch. Please come back at two.” She walks back into the hospital.

The line groans.

And it grows longer.

Rémy is a Rwandan-born Namibian writer and photographer. He is the founder, chairperson, and artministrator of Doek, an independent arts organisation in Namibia supporting the literary arts. He is also the co-founder and editor-in-chief of Doek! Literary Magazine, Namibia’s first and only literary magazine. His debut novel “The Eternal Audience Of One” is forthcoming from Scout Press (S&S).