Dr Joel Teelucks­ingh

Once up­on a time, there lived an Em­per­or who prid­ed him­self on vi­sion­ary lead­er­ship. His min­is­ters called him a man of progress, his sup­port­ers hailed him as a cham­pi­on of the peo­ple and his ad­vis­ers, well paid for their wis­dom, as­sured him that he was al­ways right.

How­ev­er, like all Em­per­ors be­fore him, he had a pe­cu­liar habit. Every few years—usu­al­ly just be­fore the sea­son of votes—he would em­bark on “The Great Un­veil­ing.” This was a sa­cred tra­di­tion, a per­for­mance where un­fin­ished projects were pa­rad­ed be­fore the peo­ple as daz­zling achieve­ments.

And so, one bright morn­ing, as the ra­dio talk shows buzzed, the Em­per­or stood be­fore his lat­est tri­umph: a brand-new hos­pi­tal block in the heart of the king­dom.

It was mag­nif­i­cent—tall, im­pos­ing and fresh­ly paint­ed, stand­ing like a sen­tinel against the sky. Gold­en scis­sors were read­ied, rib­bons were stretched taut and a crowd of loy­al sub­jects gath­ered to wit­ness the spec­ta­cle.

The Em­per­or, dressed in his finest cer­e­mo­ni­al robes, took cen­tre stage. Cam­eras flashed. Min­is­ters ad­just­ed their ties. The na­tion leaned in to lis­ten.

“Be­hold!” he de­clared, arms wide, voice boom­ing.

“This is the finest hos­pi­tal our land has ever seen! State-of-the-art! A world-class fa­cil­i­ty! The sick shall be healed, the weary shall find com­fort and our king­dom shall be the en­vy of all!”

Thun­der­ous ap­plause erupt­ed. The Em­per­or’s court—a well-re­hearsed choir of nod­ding heads and ea­ger syco­phants—cheered, eyes bright with ad­mi­ra­tion.

But there was just one small prob­lem. For among the crowd were doc­tors, nurs­es and pa­tients—those who had long suf­fered un­der the weight of over­crowd­ed wards, miss­ing med­ica­tions and end­less wait­ing times.

As they stepped through the gleam­ing doors of this so-called “prac­ti­cal­ly com­plet­ed” mas­ter­piece, their smiles fad­ed.

Where were the beds?

Where were the op­er­at­ing the­atres, the X-ray ma­chines, the life-sav­ing equip­ment that had been promised? They walked through emp­ty cor­ri­dors, their foot­steps echo­ing off cold, ster­ile walls. The si­lence was deaf­en­ing.

It was, in every sense of the word, a hos­pi­tal in name on­ly—a grand stage set, built not for heal­ing, but for head­lines.

Now, the Em­per­or’s min­is­ters were mas­ters of il­lu­sion, well-trained in the an­cient art of ex­plain­ing away the ob­vi­ous.

One stepped for­ward, clear­ing his throat. He hopped around like a frog wav­ing a wilt­ed flower in ei­ther hand and seemed ine­bri­at­ed.

“You see,” he said smooth­ly, “this is mere­ly phase one. The equip­ment will come soon.

“The beds are on their way. The staff will be hired short­ly. Check us in a few months.”

The Em­per­or nod­ded solemn­ly.

“We must cel­e­brate the progress made, not dwell on what is miss­ing,” he said, pat­ting him­self on the back. “Af­ter all, a hos­pi­tal be­gins with a build­ing.”

The crowd mur­mured. Some nod­ded. Oth­ers shift­ed un­com­fort­ably. And then, from the back, a sin­gle voice rang out.

A lit­tle girl—small, scrap­py and un­afraid of pow­er—stood on tip­toe and called out, “But, Your Majesty… where are the doc­tors? Where are the nurs­es? How can this be a hos­pi­tal if no one can be treat­ed here?”

A hush fell over the gath­er­ing.

The min­is­ters gasped. The Em­per­or’s eyes nar­rowed.

“Who said that?” he de­mand­ed.

The girl stepped for­ward, “I did.”

“You dare ques­tion the Em­per­or?”

She shrugged.

“I just thought a hos­pi­tal was sup­posed to have, you know … med­i­cine.”

A rip­ple of ner­vous laugh­ter passed through the crowd. The doc­tors smirked. The nurs­es ex­changed know­ing glances.

The pa­tients—the ones who had spent hours, days, weeks wait­ing for care—be­gan whis­per­ing among them­selves.

Yes, where were the doc­tors?

Where were the sup­plies?

Wasn’t a hos­pi­tal sup­posed to help the sick, not just im­press the tele­vi­sion cam­eras?

One jumped for­ward.

“This is neg­a­tiv­i­ty! The hos­pi­tal is a ma­jor mile­stone!”

An­oth­er puffed up his chest.

“We must fo­cus on the pos­i­tives! Rome wasn’t built in a day!”

A third, sweat glis­ten­ing on his fore­head, de­clared, “The crit­ics will al­ways find some­thing to com­plain about!”

But the peo­ple were no longer lis­ten­ing.

They were look­ing—re­al­ly look­ing—at what stood be­fore them.

A hol­low struc­ture.

An emp­ty promise.

A mi­rage, care­ful­ly timed to co­in­cide with the sea­son of votes.

The Em­per­or shift­ed un­com­fort­ably. He had spent years per­fect­ing this trick—an­nounc­ing projects be­fore they were fin­ished, wrap­ping de­lays in ex­cus­es, and hop­ing that no one would look too close­ly.

A mur­mur grew in­to a whis­per.

A whis­per be­came a wave.

And then, as if break­ing free from a spell, the crowd be­gan to laugh.

“The Em­per­or has built a hos­pi­tal with no hos­pi­tal in­side!” some­one chuck­led.

“It’s a hos­pi­tal in the­o­ry, but not in prac­tice!”

“The Em­per­or is naked!”

At those words, the last thread of the il­lu­sion un­rav­elled.

The Em­per­or left the grand un­veil­ing in a hur­ry, his pa­rade of min­is­ters trail­ing be­hind, whis­per­ing fran­tic plans for dam­age con­trol.

The peo­ple? They re­turned to their over­crowd­ed wards, their ex­haust­ed clin­ics and their end­less wait­ing lists.

Be­cause they had seen this play be­fore.

And in that mo­ment, a new thought be­gan to take root—not a whis­per, but a de­mand.

“Next time, we want more than a rib­bon. Next time, we want more than a speech.

“Next time, we want a hos­pi­tal that ac­tu­al­ly heals.”