As I look on and observe from an incredibly far distance while the nation’s teachers protest for both liveable wages and decent working conditions, I remember two stories my late Godmother who worked as a nurse in the public healthcare system shared with me growing up.
The first one revolved around how she got to know my mother who would take me to the clinic. The clinic, which was around the Blygezight Gardens neighbourhood, was in desperate need of paint to freshen up its filthy looking walls. She recalled how it was easier for the mothers who were happy to chip in with buckets of paint as opposed to the snail-like approach from the ministry at the time.
