WHEN I was about ten years old, I came down with malaria. The mere memory of it still makes my knees jiggle, and I can smell the acrid chloroquine pills which left a bitter after-taste that stayed with me for days and made my urine yellowy and stinky of medication.
I remember feeling sweaty and cold at the same time that I was not sure whether to cover myself with a blanket or jump in a tub full of ice-cold water. My appetite for food was next to nothing; no matter how much my mother tried to entice me to eat, I would simply throw up.
As an African child, I was very lucky to have survived though the memory of my illness still sends shockwaves up my spine. Unfortunately, the chloroquine pills that saved my life are not considered as effective across Africa anymore because the malaria parasite has become resistant. With each dose, the little pest has evolved, so to speak.