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The man wore the only clothing he owned, a tattered hat and ripped shirt that he buttoned when we
started talking ? first incorrectly, so he deftly unbuttoned it and started again until he felt proper.
His hands were battered and felt tougher than sandpaper on leather. But his smile was gorgeous, likable
and easy.
Since getting window, door, and eave coverings, he had not received any mosquito bites. He held his
hands to his face like a baby sleeping. Ninalala salama kila osiku sasa, he said. I sleep soundly every
night. His face carried such sweetness that I couldn't help but smile, although the idea of sleeping on
a mud floor in a space no bigger than four by eight does not bring calm sleep to mind.
Previously, the man had suffered two cases of malaria each month and had to find money to buy
chloroquine ? at a price of ten shillings, or about a penny, a pill. (His meager earnings were four
or five dollars a month.) It is common for people to suffer malaria chronically; they take pills until
they feel better and stop because they cannot afford more, so the disease remains in their bloodstream.
I asked if he could pay for a bednet. He answered that he was thankful to God and to A to Z for the
net ? it had changed his life, but he didn't think he could pay anything at all. "Please, I hope you
let me keep this gift, for my life has benefited so much," he said. This old man had been dealt a
terrible hand, and yet he was dignified and appreciative.
This is the power and the challenge. After talking to people in this and other villages, we're
looking at creating private market channels for these nets. If we could distribute nets to 80% of people,
then the disease that kills 1 million people and costs Africa $12 billion a year could be eliminated.
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