The week before Christmas, Joyce's 23-year-old brother died. He was the 5th family member she lost this year. My heart broke for her, with her, as we hugged and cried, mourning her loss and grieving for her pain. She has only one immediate family member left--her sister, whose only child died just weeks ago. Death is that real here, that ever-present. It hovers over villages like a cloud, camps out on doorsteps, knocks down doors with its persistent banging. It's unpacked its suitcase; it plans on staying a while, like an unwanted visit from a second cousin. It's the constant lump in everyone's throat; it's the hole in our pants pockets, making it impossible to hold on to anything. Or anyone. It's the uncatchable thief, stealing not only breath from lungs, but dreams from hearts. It's the elusive serial killer, taking not only lives, but futures. It's the brutal rapist, destroying not only innocence, but untapped potential.

Africa is dying inside. Slowly, yet quickly, in the paradoxical way that AIDS seems to take its time, prolonging misery, pain, and grief, while it rushes in with swift, sweeping force.

Don't look the other way.