I browse through my phone with no particular aim, other than that of passing time. Half an hour has passed and dust is collecting on my table. One more pull of the straw and my now tepid drink will be over. I reserve my last pull as the final act before surrendering my patience. I set my patience timer to ten minutes. I look around and notice orders being taken and bills being settled. I try to spot the waitress who took my order but is nowhere to be found. The others seem preoccupied to care about my frustrations. When one catches a glimpse of me, I do the hand motion thing, and like a programmed robot, he heads to my direction.
“Yes Madam?” he asks feigning a smile.
He seems pleasant enough that I forget the polemics I rehearsed on how the elections results was read faster than food here is made ready. I instead inquire about my order and he assures me that he is going to check on it. He then disappears. I wait, again. I wonder what could take a simple meal of deep fried potatoes so long. I only manage to come with two reasons; one, the cook must have acquired cholera and had to be rushed through the back door exit to the nearest hospital, or two, the cooking oil ran out and the waiter was sent to fetch from the nearest transformer. The former seems more realistic, I think to myself.
After two songs have air played, I know my patience timer is almost over. I consider using the free WI-FI to air my frustrations on a review but my patience timer clicks, and I pull on the last straw. When my drink is finally over, so is my patience. Before I could make for the door, the waitress magically appears with a tray of food- as if the she had been waiting around the corner to test my patience. She seems unapologetic, and is beaming. Once she places the food on the table, a form of apology seems to suffice through the aroma and appearance of the food, and I dig in forgetting I ever waited.