I came home last night to the news that my friend, M., had lost his battle with Aids. I was able to sit with him in hospital just a few weeks ago, to hold his hand and hug him and to pray with him. I was hopeful when I left that he was recovering from the infection that had him hospitalized. Yesterday, his grandparents buried him. He was 10.M's grandparents have now buried their children and their grandchild. They are left to figure out what is next for them in a life that is, once again, derailed by grief and loss. Their hearts are breaking while many here are becoming immune to the reality that this is not how life is meant to be. We console ourselves with platitudes that somehow, because it's more common, that it is easier for an African mother to watch her children and grandchildren die...that somehow grief is lessened by the fact that many others have and are experiencing the same ordeal. It's such ignorance on our part. Walk into a childrens' ward in a cancer clinic in North America and we would not have the audacity to placate ourselves with the idea that grief and hardship are lessened by commonality. Suffering is suffering, regardless of the number of those who suffer the same fate.While we bury our head in the sands of inattention and inaction, Africans are burying their future.