In the malaria ward at the pediatric hospital, the doctor recites the status of the children. This one is emerging from coma. This one is doing much better. They have quinine drips and transfusion bags, sometimes an IV stand shared between two patients. At one bed, a father, dressed meticulously in a kaftan, stands perfectly still beside his daughter. I’m not sure he understands the French.
This is, for selfish reasons, a hard place for me to be. Outside the ward, in the open-air hall, I lean against the wall and try not to think about why.