The sun was hot that day in Wagadoo. The streets were full of people—rushing to work, selling goods, or looking for help. Inside the national hospital, the atmosphere was quiet but heavy. Nurses moved around quickly. Doctors walked past rooms without smiling. The air smelled of medicine and sadness.
President Ibrahim Traoré was not there on official duty. He had come quietly to visit an old friend who was recovering from surgery. He did not wear his uniform or come with many guards—only one assistant was with him. He didn’t want to make noise or draw attention. He just wanted to check on his friend and go home.
As he walked through the hallway with his assistant, he suddenly heard a loud cry. It was a woman, crying like her whole world was ending. He stopped and looked around.
A young woman in a torn dress ran toward him, holding a small baby wrapped in a faded pink cloth.
“Please, sir,” she shouted, her eyes red with tears. “My baby is dying. Please don’t let her die. Please!”
Everyone turned to look. President Ibrahim quickly stepped forward.
“Calm down, madam. What’s happening to your child? My name is Salimata,” she said, breathing hard. “I am a single mother. My husband died two weeks ago. My baby has…..Read Full Story Here..………………
