The ceiling was black; or was it white? Or did it actually change colour depending on the time of the day? That was all that I could grasp as I lay in bed with Miss Malaria, munching medicines. In the hallway outside my room - high-heeled prostitutes “clicketi-clacketed” back and forth with their new and old customers - and outside our questionable hotel - unenthusiastic independence-day celebrations took place. Slowly my strength returned and I ventured out into the flooded streets of Niamey - the city of flies - the capital of Niger. Always poor, dirty and hot, and at most times it’s also very dusty. Now - thanks to the heavy rains - with all its dust fixed into pools of brown sluggish liquid - we waded through the city. At times the pools were
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