By the time I arrive, a long queue has already formed. Mostly mothers with young children, but also a few older men leaning on sticks and one teenage boy holding a bandaged arm, his grimace telling me he probably removed the dressing himself. Again.
“Morning,” I call out, ducking into the tent.
“Morning, Doctora,” says Amara, my local assistant, who’s already gloved up and unpacking supplies from a canvas duffel. She’s brilliant—sharp, calm under pressure, and as well versedin the local dialect as she is in English, which is extremely useful when we get a patient who doesn’t speak English.
The first few cases are straightforward: two follow-ups from yesterday’s malaria diagnoses—both doing better, tired but fever-free. I check their vitals while Amara explains to them the importance of finishing the course of meds, even if their fever is gone. One of the mothers nods, her eyes wary. The other just looks exhausted.
Next, a baby with a rash—probably heat. We show the mother how to use the cream sparingly, and Amara scribbles instructions on a notebook page in both English and the local dialect, tearing it off to give to her.
Then, the boy with the arm. I lift the edge of the bandage and wince. “What did I say about keeping this clean?” I ask him gently, raising an eyebrow.
He shrugs and offers a sheepish grin.
“Looks like someone wanted to impress his friends,” Amara mutters under her breath, making me bite back a smile.
We clean the wound and rewrap it, giving him a packet of antiseptic wipes and a stern look. The kid nods solemnly, as if he’s just been handed state secrets, then jogs out of the tent.
Next comes a grandmother from a nearby village, her nine grandchildren trailing behind her like ducklings. One has a fever. Another has a persistent cough. Two have scrapes on their knees from what must have been a full-contact game of tag. We treat what we can, hand out oral rehydration salts, and promise to stop by their village soon for a proper follow-up.
By the time the last patient leaves, my shirt is sticking to my back, and the tent smells faintly of antiseptic and sweat. The work I do here is so different from what I’m used to at the hospital, but somehow, I know it makes just as much of a difference, and that’s what keeps me going.
We pack up just before the sun dips over the horizon, and I say goodbye to Amara with a grateful smile. My back aches from crouching most of the afternoon, and my brain is fried. Luckily, the walk back to camp is peaceful. The path winds through dry grass and low shrubs, the sky streaked with shocks of pink and gold. A few birds flit between the branches overhead, and I catch the far-off echo of kids laughing.
I’m exhausted, but when I glimpse the message board back at the communal area, I realise the day is not over yet. Because apparently, I’m on latrine duty today, with none other than Archie Wilcott. Great. Just when I was congratulating myself on managing to avoid him for an entire day. With agroan, I head to the toilet area and grab the cleaning supplies, but Archie’s not here yet. Shocker. I wait for a few minutes, but the longer I stand there, the more my legs start to protest. My shoulders feel like bricks, and I let out a long, frustrated yawn.
Blowing out a sigh, I finally tie a scarf around my mouth, pull on gloves, and set to work scrubbing. “Of course he’s a no-show,” I mutter under my breath. “Probably thinks he’s too good to touch a toilet brush.”
Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.
“Bet he’s lounging in a hammock somewhere. Hair perfectly tousled, laughing at his own jokes while some poor girl hangs on his every word,” I grumble. “I hate him. I genuinelyhatehim.”
I dump another splash of disinfectant into the bucket, the sharp chemical smell making my eyes sting.
“Honestly, who volunteers on a humanitarian mission and skips the actual work? Must be nice having charm and biceps instead of a moral compass.”
I jam the brush into the far corner of the toilet with a grunt.
“Footballers. Overpaid, overpraised, and underwhelming in every actual life skill. Can’t even handle a spider without summoning the entire camp like he’s being murdered.”
By the time I finish, my arms ache, and I’m two degrees short of a heatstroke. I drag myself to the water tank to rinse off, and that’s when I see him. He’s at the far edge of the clearing, surrounded by laughing kids, shirt slightly damp with sweat as he juggles a football like he’s in a commercial.
You have got to be kidding me.
I square my shoulders and march across the dusty ground.
“Oh, if it isn’t our friend of the arachnids,” he calls out, shivering theatrically.
I stop a few paces away, crossing my arms. “You think the rules don’t apply to you because you’re a celebrity or something?”
He blinks, the children scooting away to watch the show. “What’s your problem? We’re not in London. There’s no elliptical to wipe down.”
I level him with a dark look. “Thelatrines. We were supposed to clean them together.”
He runs a hand through his hair, his playful tone dropping. “Right—well, maybe it’ll scrub off those posh manners of yours.” He gives a half-hearted wince, as if he just poked himself.
“Posh?” I echo, leaning in so only he can hear. “I’mthe posh one? Who’s out here playing footy with the kids instead of doing his bit?”
He looks down at his scuffed trainers, then meets my eyes. “I forgot, okay? I’m sorry.”