A Mother in a Refugee Camp by Chinua Achebe

No Madonna and Child could touch Her tenderness for a son She soon would have to forget....

The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea, Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there Had long ceased to care, but not this one: She held a ghost-smile between her teeth, And in her eyes the memory of a mother's pride.... She had bathed him And rubbed him

down with bare palms. She took from their bundle of possessions A broken comb and combed

The rust-colored hair left on his skull And then-humming in her eyes- began carefully to part it. In their former life this was perhaps A little daily act of no consequence Before his breakfast and school; now she did it Like putting flowers on a tiny grave.