Portrait of a Young Boy in Antananarivo

He sat in one corner of the room. His eyes were closed, his arms against his chest shivering. He rested peacefully as the congregation lifted up their hands to sing songs of praise. Yet, his blood-shot eyes kept screaming some kind of silent pain. He was not well, yet he kept still. The quietness caused a silent discomfort in the room.

“Said, do you want to take some Panadol?”

His name sounded like the wind. Say it softly; you can feel a gentle breeze blowing through your lips. Say it loudly; and it sounds like a storm blowing through desert land.  

“SAAAIIIDDD!!!”

“Yes?”

“Time to get up and go to the market. Don’t be late.”

It was still dark. He rose from the icy bare floor. He had no bed but only a simple blanket -not enough to keep him warm at night. His arms and legs were stiff with the cold as he gathered the baskets of vegetables, and set off to go sell at the market before school.

“Someone took pity of him because both of his parents are mentally ill.” the director told me as we were pacing rapidly towards the hospital.

He lived with a distant relative in a squatter house in Manjagaray. There is a tradition in Madagascar that once a relative takes in a boy; he works as a servant for food and board.  

We arrived at the hospital, and were directed to Dr. Ratakoianana office. He was lying down on a bench, the IV in one arm, a brother’s hand in the other. He had a 40 degree fever, and was in deep pain. Yet a peaceful tranquility still emanated from his face.

“Many children in the school get sick but their parents rarely take care of them. Even when they are sick, they still come because there is nothing to eat at home,” the director explained to me as we sat on the waiting room.

We waited until the last drop of Paracetamol glided through the IV into his arm. He was discharged, but the doctor recommended him to be hospitalized. She suspected that a renal failure was causing the fever.

We went to the Patisserie next door to buy some pastry for him. We were trying to decide whether to send him home or hospitalize him as the doctor suggested.

“Said, do you want to go home and ask your relatives about this matter?”

He quickly shook his head.

“No, let’s go back to church.”

“Said, are you sure?”

“Yes,” he insisted.

Once we arrived at church, we covered him with blankets. He lied down in one of the benches in the basement. The children crowded curiously around him, offering much comfort and smiles. But soon after they were told to leave him alone so that he could rest.

I came downstairs with a plate of rice and beans. As I was putting down the plate, I saw him close his eyes and smile.

He was home. And he was well at last.