The Crescendo of Death

The mosquito’s buzzed around Mashango’s hut. Their dark cloud hovered outside the netting draped over his entrance way. He had just finished swatting the last remaining hundred that had followed him in for the night. The flickering light from four large candles lit the small room, illuminating his wife asleep on their grass bed. He sat on the stool by the bed, placing his hand on her burning forehead. Perspiration slimed his hand and he wiped it on his ripped jeans.

Her eyes opened and she smiled.

“Good evening, Koralo,” he said, producing a desert flower. “How are you feeling?”

“Mashango, you are to good to me.” She pushed the covers down and sat up, the disfigured curve of her back forced her to crane her neck to look him in the eye. It pained him to see her like this, this woman so full of youth.

How she smiled at him that fateful day, carrying their laundry home from the river. Her and the other wives were the first to contract Chikungunya. It spread like the rays of the sun across the village, killing the old and new first and then months later, the village grew sick.

“No Koralo, you are to good for me.” He placed his hand on top of hers and she squeezed it.

The Government trucks arrived a month ago, sealing the town . The doctors arrived and let anyone without the disease to go. His friends told him to leave. His wife begged him to go. He had gone to the edge of town, the soldiers with MK-47s stood guard, and he clutched his laminated pass in his hand, but he could not go.

The mosquito’s, the agents of death, buzzed in a crescendo outside as he placed the flower into her hair.