I sat on a few beds and chatted, making small talk about future prevention and, in my own way, hopefully introducing the possibility of each individual making a commitment to sleep under a “mousquitaire” when they go home. We also talked about the treatment, the artemisinin-based medications that are working well. It was a visiting day, so most patients had family in: grandmothers, other children and siblings. One had a transistor radio. One man was feeding his small son, an IV pick awkwardly taped to his hand, which it dwarfed. The boy was lethargic and mute, his nose ran. The man fed him black beans from a tin plate, around which gnats and flies flew. The man was a very hard person, as were the other men with whom I spoke. He raged at pregnant women to whom we give nets for no charge when they come to the clinic: Am I not a man? Should I not be given a net?

I asked him if nets were available in the private sector and he said yes, but that he has no money. I said, “Oh, come on, I bet you have a little money from time to time for a smoke!” “No!” he exclaimed. “Beer, what about a glass of beer?” Again, “No!” he declared. “Ah, you have so much virtue! Such a clean life! But … I bet from time to time you have a little money to spend on a woman!” The room erupted into delighted laughter. (It is very well documented, through micro-financing organizations, that men in the developing world waste money at shocking rates, whereas women save and invest every pittance.)

We debated the value of investing in prevention by spending 50 cents on a net. “Wouldn’t it be wise,” I said, trying again, “to spend a little money for a net, so as to save all it costs when you’re sick? When the children are sick?” I gestured to the tiny, stifling room, loaded with prone bodies. He had no response to that.

I don’t think he has anything against buying products. He had plenty, especially a high-end mobile phone with incredible features and decent clothes. His grudge against buying a net is that some women get them for free.

A lovely little girl was eyeing me cautiously. She began to stare at me more openly, and I thought to take her picture and show her the image. Perhaps it would please her. Instead, the man leapt up in between my camera and the room, blocking me from not just his boy but everyone in the room. I explained what I had meant to do, and that it was a means of reaching out to a new friend, and he began to mock me. He got his phone out, scrolled through its zillion features, found the camera, and ran all over room as if taking my picture with it. I hammed it up, posing from each angle to which he darted. Everyone giggled.

It was time to go. I thanked everyone for the visit, wished them a good afternoon, a speedy recovery and good health. I walked to the car wondering not if, but how many that man has raped.

The people here are not just reserved in a cultural way, they are cautious in the way of the stunned, of those who have lived with trauma, brutality and suffering. Of the hundred or so people I visited today, a few after a greeting became soft and warm, but most could merely give me superficial smiles that said, “Oh, hi. Yeah, OK. Whatever. Hi, bye.” The rest of their countenance and demeanor was occupied with living horror. They wanted to be nice and friendly; what they offered was all they had to give, and except for the few with whom I visited at length, sharing their clinic bed, it wasn’t much.