The world’s most famous feminist powerhouse, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, has hurled a grenade at the NHS, accusing a hospital of playing a bureaucratic waiting game while her son slipped away. This is not a drill, folks. The author of *We Should All Be Feminists* is now writing an unsolicited chapter on the perils of the National Health Service’s legendary penchant for form-filling over pulse-checking.
According to the reports that have reached my gin-stained keyboard, Adichie’s son was rushed to an unnamed London hospital with what sounded like a straightforward case of a child needing immediate medical attention. But instead of the swift, heroic intervention we’ve all been led to expect from our beloved but beleaguered NHS, the family was treated to the kind of lethargy usually reserved for a Sunday afternoon in a provincial post office.
Now, I am no medical professional. My expertise lies in the discerning clink of ice cubes and the anatomy of a public relations disaster. But something about this story reeks of the particular British tendency to baffle and delay while the world burns. Adichie, never one to suffer fools or bureaucratic idiots gladly, has done what she does best: she has named names, called out the system, and left a trail of poetic scorn in her wake.
The hospital in question, which shall remain nameless for fear of my own inbox exploding, has issued the standard waffle: 'We are deeply sorry for the loss and are investigating the circumstances.' Which is hospital-speak for 'Let’s form a committee, commission a review, and schedule a meeting canteen-side in three months.’ God save the NHS, but sometimes its methods are so agonisingly, quintessentially British that it’s a wonder we haven’t all expired from sheer politeness.
Adichie’s accusation is not just a mother’s grief turning into rage. It is a scalpel wielded against a colossus. She claims doctors were more concerned with tick-boxes and protocols than with treating her boy. And if that is true, then this is not just a tragedy. It is a systemic cock-up of the highest order.
Let us paint the scene: a hospital corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps. A child gasps for breath. A doctor, perhaps not yet qualified to tie his own shoelaces without a risk assessment, stands there clutching a clipboard. ‘Before we can proceed, we need to fill out form AB-23, section C, paragraph 4.’ Meanwhile, the child looks at Mum with eyes that say, ‘Why aren’t they helping me?’ And Mum, a literary lioness who has taken on patriarchy, racism and the publishing industry, is about to add the NHS to her bestseller list of adversaries.
Now, I am not calling for the privatisation of healthcare. Do not mistake my tone for malice. The NHS is a sacred cow, but even sacred cows produce a lot of methane. And when stories like this emerge, we need to ask: is the protocol protecting the patient or the hospital’s reputation?
Adichie’s grief is raw, her fury is righteous, and her platform is formidable. If I were the NHS Trust in question, I would not be drafting a defensive statement. I would be drafting a resignation letter from someone whose incompetence let a child die while they fiddled with paperwork.
But let’s be honest: we will see a review. We will see a ‘lessons learned’ document. And then it will be filed away in that great filing cabinet in the sky where all British systems go to be forgotten. Meanwhile, Adichie will write a searing essay that will make the world weep and think. And perhaps, just perhaps, the next time a child is rushed into A&E, someone will put down the clipboard and pick up a stethoscope.
Here’s to you, Ms Adichie. Raise a glass of something strong (I recommend anything with gin) and keep shouting. The NHS needs to hear your voice above the sound of its own bureaucratic machinery.
This is Biff Thistlethwaite, signing off from the bar at the edge of reason.
