One by one, drowsy masses leave the room. The crowd gets smaller: weaker. You can feel the strength of the reader fading away, and the power of sleep threatening to subdue.
A once virile and enthusiastic team of seven has now been abated to three conservative young aspiring doctors: the homies.
There’s no more talking. The rush and thrill is no longer there. The atmosphere is still and dowdy.
The dirty plates have been piled up neatly in a corner. Their fate is unclear. They have been abandoned…forsaken. They have served the team well; but now they sit neglected. Only to be used again when the need arises.
“Mimi naenda kulala. Niamshe ukienda kulala,” says the voice of drowning man clutching at a straw.
“Sawa,” retorts the shaken voice of uncertainity.
A chill breeze sweeping across our feet chases away the sleep. The effect is however temporary. There is absolutely no hope of going any further.
As the flicker of the bulb is greeted by dusk, one can only ponder on what the future holds. Is there promise? Is all this worth it? Will there a reward for our efforts? Or like, the dirty dishes, one is about to be pushed to the side by a fateful result. Like the dirty dishes, one is about to be rejected…