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Pain creeps in like a warthog
spreading distaste all around in quickening quagmire
reducing men to tottering feebles
as it prowls the street with intent.
It lurks behind barricaded windows
sniffing for an entry into darkened rooms
sparing neither friend nor foe.
Pain slithers along guttered alleys
shiny after sprinkles of rainfall
on cemented floors.
Pain keeps coming
sullen, like an unwelcome guest,
gliding from house to house
leaving behind a sickening odor in fenced dwellings
here in Palm Wine Junction
set far from the main road.
Far in the distance
A woman’s pained voice reverberates
across slim-greased walls.
Another child dead in the night
The third in a row.
Malaria.