Alexandria died. She was 16.

One of Alphonces's neighbors, she would come to his house in the afternoon to help prepare the evening meal. It was during those times that I got to know her, as we peeled potatoes or as I marveled at her ability to do three times as much work as I could. A week before her death she was in good health, a lively teenage woman.

Her father came to the shamba this morning during breakfast. He expressed his thanks to Alphonce for helping to pay the funeral costs. He spoke for 15 minutes and made eye contact twice. The rest of the time he stared at the wall or out the open door. His hands never stopped tugging at the frayed edges of his hat.





Ana, the young girl in the picture above, contracted Malaria almost two months ago. During her recovery, bacteria attacked her liver. She received good medical care and medication because both of her parents are employed and can therefore afford the treatments. Since starting the regimen of drugs, her health has improved. The same cannot be said of almost 10,000 other children in Africa who die everyday of treatable diseases. That number can be too big to comprehend until you start assigning potential names to the masses: Ana, George, Dennis.

Peter, one of my running companions, holds Ana. Peter is Alexandria's brother. I asked Alphonce what I should say to Peter, how to best express my sympathy. "Just say you are sorry. To talk about the death would make him focus on the grief." There are close to 10 funerals every week in this small community. The life expectancy is just over 40. With so much loss, people here cannot grieve for long. They must plant before the rains start. They must walk to the lake to collect water. They must find firewood. They must to survive.