I have been in Mbabane for a few days for “close of service” medical examinations.  While in town, I was able to stop in the children’s ward and see Spelele.  She has been there for over a week and they only took her to surgery today because there were not enough medicines and surgical supplies to do more than the absolutely essential surgeries.  I arrived while she was in surgery and did not see her; however I was able to visit with the other mothers and children for a little bit.  I brought a fuzzy teddy bear to a little girl I met there the other day who is dying of cancer.  They showed me her belly- an inverted U of gleaming staples stretching from one side to the other- and told me the doctors opened her up and found cancer everywhere.  All they could do was close her back up again.  The little girl is beautiful and she is loved and she is dying.  Her mother does not seem to understand that the child is dying and I was not going to take that away from her.  She will be sad soon enough. 

I also gave the kids a coloring book and crayons to play with and some candy. 

As much as I do not want to be the "umlungu", the white person, in the role of benevolent benefactor, it takes so little to make a difference in their day.  A day at the hospital, with nothing to do, nothing to watch, no books, no toys, a day here stretches.  And these children are here for a long time.  I looked over the child with spinal cord injury I met the other day.  His mother speaks perfect English and has her infant child with her as well.  She helps me to communicate with the other mothers.  She and her other child both sleep on the floor near the injured child.  He is about 9 and was hit by a vehicle.  Except for his eyes, immense against his tiny face, he is immobile.  He probably weighs as much as his much younger sibling.  It will not be long for this one either. 

I sit and chat for a while.  An attendant comes in who knows me from Hlaitkhulu and he sits with us as well.  We talk about HIV and I encourage all the women and their children to check their status.  The attendant tells me that when culture was strong and girls remained virgins, HIV was not an issue.  It is the girls fault.  Of course I respond, I can’t not now.  I go on a bit about the men who have children with several girls and women, leaving at the first sight of pregnancy and taking no responsibility.  I don’t know of any young women with children (and I know many) where the father of the child is present. I then lapse into my diatribe about how there is nothing for girls and women here other than what men allow them, and to be with a man is often just a means to get by.  The man looks down, he doesn’t disagree, and the women are surprised and more than a bit pleased, to hear someone speaking for them.  It’s true, it’s not always that way, and the girls are responsible for their own behavior, but it’s mostly that way.  I check the little girl with cancer on my way out.  She lies on a small metal cot, staring silently and clutching the fuzzy bear.  It may provide some small comfort in these next few days, weeks at most.