Maurice, Moustafa, and the Ministry of health

Last week, after I wrote the final story on Maurice, I got several urgent phone calls from his mother a few days later. She wanted to speak with me face to face, and I agreed given she doesn't have the reputation of being an alarmist, and I knew she was serious.
As we sat in their hot cement house, all of us in the one room, sweating and draped in children, Maurice's mom told me about a dream she had. As she slept, she saw Maurice getting an infusion, she knew somehow it was the same kind we had tried before. She saw an angel come and touch Maurice on the eye, healing him of his disease.
Can we try it again?

Yes, of course.
God please let me have faith that allows me to believe this could happen. I want to believe. Give me the strength to believe.

With only a handful of medication left on the ship I had done some research into getting more at the Ministry of Health here. They said it would be easy, "no problem" which in all honesty is not terribly comforting. At all.
We dropped Maurice off at the local hospital with Rachelle and Luc on Monday and made our way over to see about the medications. We went to the first room where you 'order' what you want. We then followed a lady out to a warehouse where boxes upon boxes of medication are piled as high as the ceiling. The most popular are towards the front.
Mebendazole for worms, Quinine for malaria, Vitamin B6 injections for, well, they give it for any and every ailment. As always, another story for another day.
At this point, my partner and translator split to go retrieve a signature on some official documents we have signed weekly by the minister of health, Moustafa. I don't know why, but I love that his name is Moustafa. Moustafa, Moustafa, Moustafa. Its fun to say, isn't it?
Anyways, I figured I could handle the payment and receipt portion of our transaction with the (extremely) limited Frech I know. The original lady I followed decided to bring me to yet another room, this one with the glorious sound of an air conditioning unit buzzing outside. As I walked past an armored car I remember thinking about how sketchy banks and business transactions can be in these countries. This led me to not be the least bit surprised when I walked through the doors to find two humungous men yeilding giant guns (I won't embarass myself in trying to say what kind of guns they were) and sporting bullet proof vests.
Sa Va? I said like an idiot.
Oiu, sa va.
Whew. haha.
Once Moustafa (the minister of health) found me and returned my team to the room with the air conditioning and guns, we sat and waited. And waited.
A phone in the lobby rang at one point, apparently we missed the memo to answer it, and was prompted to do so by another customer. 'They' (still don't know who 'they' are exactly) told us our total cost for the medication, but nothing else.
Moustafa returned and clearly was not impressed by our waiting game. He marched into the back room and shortly thereafter we were asked to pay up and follow him back to the warehouse.
Within minutes I was handed 10 vials of cyclophosphamide, a toxic chemotherapy drug. In total, I paid 13,o50 CFA, roughly 26 bucks.
In the end, after a few hours, we had enough treatment for Maurice, and all it took was my signature.

I saw Maurice today along with the other kids. He is sick, yet still cuddles, and his mom is hopeful. She knows medicine doesn't believe we will be successful in this treatment, but she is praying that science is wrong. I am too.
Will you join in praying again for little Maurice? His mother says that he will be a testimony to Gods miraculous nature, and everything in me wants that to be true. I also want to pray in line with Gods will for him. For now, I go with my gut instinct to give his mother credit and try a few rounds.
For now, I will continue to love on Maurice and tell him about Jesus. That part is easy.