mazoe orange

"The nurse said to bring her Mazoe Orange," Mai A says. "I buy it. But in the rural areas, it is very expensive. Four dollars seventy. In OK it is three dollars."

She shakes her head. "But I buy it," she insists.

Months ago, I bumped into an acquaintance in Spar scanning the shelves for "red juice." Red juice (also made by Mazoe, among others) is a preservative-, sugar- and colourant-laden version of squash or cordial. There's probably not a berry of real fruit in it. "I'm getting it for my father," she told me proudly. "The nurse says he needs red juice for his blood."

I think about these prescriptions, bought so diligently by locals. Mai A disappeared to the clinic yesterday to visit her sister 'from 22' (I presume this means she's the housemaid at Number 22, Some Road). "She's bleeding from the nose," Mai A told me, face contorted at the fear of yet another family tragedy. "And she has a bad headache. People die from those headaches."

This morning she tells me the sister does not have malaria. We look at each other silently for a few seconds. "It's the cold," I say unconvincingly.

"Yes," she agrees. "That Mazoe was too expensive." And I finally understand: when there's nothing else to prescribe a patient, Mazoe squash becomes something for the relatives to cling to. The essence of hope, perhaps.