Every evening, she visited Tawakalitu’s family and tried to understand their needs. Every time she visited, she was overwhelmed by the gloom that had engulfed the family. It was visible like a fog on a harmattan morning. It was expected. Death had left behind a presence that had refused to go away. It hung in the air and in the sighs of the grieving mother. It had robbed the family of its soul and left it hollowed. And, though no one said it, they lived in fear of who would die next.