“We are with you,” he said, squeezing her hand. “We are working to make things better.”
He shook hands with an elderly man whose eyes filled with tears at the unexpected kindness.
But the condition of the hospital was impossible to ignore. Equipment was old, medicine scarce, and the workers exhausted. Paint peeled from the walls. Water dripped from the ceiling, forming tiny puddles on the tiles.
Dr. Ouatara, the head of pediatrics—a man around fifty with weary but determined eyes—approached him.
“Mr. President, would you visit our intensive care unit? That is where the most serious cases are, and where we need help the most.”
Ibrahim nodded and followed him through the narrow hallways.
Turning a corner, he nearly slipped on a wet patch of floor but caught himself just in time.
“Be careful. The floor was just cleaned,” came a soft voice.
He turned and saw an older woman in a faded blue uniform holding a bucket and mop. She kept her head down, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered.
“It is nothing, madam. I was not paying attention,” he replied kindly.
He was about to continue when something about her—her voice, the way she stood—sent a strange shiver through him. He stopped and studied her face.
Dr. Ouatara nudged him gently. “Shall we continue, Mr. President?”
But Ibrahim remained frozen, his heart beginning to race. The woman’s hands were worn from years of labor. Her posture was quiet yet dignified. Her face seemed deeply familiar.
“What is your name?” he asked, his voice calm but urgent.
The woman blinked in surprise. Slowly, she lifted her head, revealing a face marked by age but still gentle.
“My name is Aminata,” she said softly.
The name echoed in Ibrahim’s mind like a distant memory. Familiar, yet full of weight.
“Aminata,” he whispered. “Thank you, Aminata.”
