I watched as Zikora advanced, stealthily.
“Whaam!” Her palm made impact with the wall, crushing the mosquito against it.
Another victory, we smiled at each other.
We did not start to call the many blood lines, like haphazard tally markings, on the walls of our house victories until our neighbour left with Ugochi, her daughter to the hospital and came back alone. She’d said that Ugochi died of malaria.
Zikora and I had been shocked. We didn’t know that people died of malaria and we’d thrown away our drugs.
Earlier, we had counted the lines on the walls. 4847 victories.