Diarrhea, 90 percent of which is caused by food and water

Host: The sun burned low over the edge of the slum, bleeding orange light into puddles of dirty water that shimmered like mirrors cracked by time. The air was thick — the heavy, sweet-sour smell of decay mingling with the faint aroma of street food. Flies swarmed lazily in the humid air, and somewhere in the distance, a child laughed — a sound so small and defiant it almost broke the world’s heart.

Host: Jack and Jeeny stood near a narrow alleyway, where the concrete gave way to mud and litter. Behind them, a wall carried the faded paint of a government slogan: “Clean Hands, Healthy Lives.” The irony dripped down it like old rain.

Host: Between them, a small bucket of water reflected the sky, murky and trembling.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Rose George said something once that I can’t shake. ‘Diarrhea, 90 percent of which is caused by food and water contaminated by excrement, kills a child every fifteen seconds. That’s more than AIDS, malaria, or measles, combined. Human feces are an impressive weapon of mass destruction.’”

Jack: (grimly) “You always pick the cheerful ones.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about cheerful, Jack. It’s about real. People talk about war, terrorism, politics — but this? This is war too. Invisible, filthy, slow.”

Host: A small boy ran past them barefoot, kicking up dust and water as he chased a deflated ball. His laughter echoed, bright against the dying light. Jeeny watched him, her eyes soft but dark with thought.

Jack: (lighting a cigarette) “You make it sound like humanity’s greatest enemy is itself.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Isn’t it? We built rockets to Mars but can’t build toilets that work for everyone. We invented smartphones but still let kids die because someone’s water is full of shit. Literally.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple? You can’t fix centuries of poverty with a bathroom.”

Jeeny: “You can start there.”

Host: The smoke from Jack’s cigarette curled upward, catching the light — fragile and fading, like an argument he knew he’d lose but refused to stop having.

Jack: “You talk like sanitation’s salvation. But it’s infrastructure, funding, politics — every nation’s dirty mirror. Nobody wants to look.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s killing us. Because no one wants to talk about it. It’s not glamorous. It doesn’t make headlines. You say ‘toilet’ and people laugh. Meanwhile, two billion people live without one.”

Jack: (shaking his head) “You think people don’t care? They care — until caring costs them. Until they have to see what they don’t want to.”

Jeeny: “Caring isn’t seeing, Jack. It’s acting. And we’ve built a world that would rather disinfect the surface than clean the root.”

Host: Her voice rose slightly, breaking the rhythm of the street’s hum. A vendor across the way turned briefly, curious, then went back to packing his stand. The smell of fried plantains wafted through the humid air — sweet, absurdly alive against the rot that lived beside it.

Jack: “You sound angry.”

Jeeny: “I am angry. Because this — this is preventable. Because every fifteen seconds, a child dies choking on what we refuse to fix. Because if death had an accent or a designer label, maybe the world would notice.”

Host: The silence after her words was sharp. Even the flies seemed to hesitate midair. Jack took a slow drag, his eyes distant, thoughtful.

Jack: “You ever been to Kibera?”

Jeeny: “In Kenya? Once.”

Jack: “I went there ten years ago, covering a story. I remember walking through these narrow paths, seeing what they call ‘flying toilets.’ Plastic bags full of waste thrown into the night because there’s nowhere else to go. The air was so heavy with ammonia it burned my throat. And you know what got me? The kids. They still smiled. Still played football with bottles. How do you hold that kind of joy in that kind of hell?”

Jeeny: “Maybe because joy’s the only rebellion left.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And yet here we are, years later, same numbers. Same cycle. So maybe it’s not ignorance — maybe it’s indifference. We can’t fix what we’ve learned to ignore.”

Jeeny: “That’s the worst kind of blindness. The one we choose.”

Host: A truck rolled past, spraying water and mud across the street. The children scattered, laughing as droplets hit their faces. Jeeny smiled faintly, watching them, her expression softening for a moment before the weight of the truth returned.

Jeeny: “You know what Rose George called sanitation? The final taboo. We can talk about war, death, even disease — but not waste. Not the thing that ties every human being to the same need.”

Jack: “Maybe because it reminds us we’re animals. Not so far from the ground we walk on.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But maybe remembering that could save us. It’s humbling — knowing that civilization isn’t skyscrapers or AI or billion-dollar rockets. It’s clean water. It’s a working toilet. It’s dignity.”

Jack: “Dignity, huh. You think people in power care about that word? They talk about GDP, about national security, not whether a kid in Dhaka dies because of bad plumbing.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve defined power wrong.”

Host: The sky dimmed to deep purple now, and the faint glow of street lamps flickered to life. The puddles turned to black mirrors, reflecting the neon light in trembling patches.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, it’s funny. We measure progress by how fast we move, but maybe we should measure it by how few we leave behind.”

Jeeny: “That’s what progress should mean — that no one dies from something we already know how to prevent.”

Host: Her words were steady, but her eyes glistened. Jack noticed, but said nothing. He ground his cigarette into the dirt, the faint hiss of dying ember sounding almost like apology.

Jack: “You ever think the world’s too far gone for that kind of idealism?”

Jeeny: “No. I think the world’s waiting for it.”

Jack: “Then what would you do, Jeeny, if you could fix it all?”

Jeeny: “Start with one. One well. One toilet. One child who doesn’t die today.”

Host: The rain began — light at first, tapping against the tin roofs like hesitant percussion. People ran for shelter. The children squealed and danced in it, arms spread wide, mouths open to the sky.

Jeeny: “See that? They still believe the rain is clean.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s better that they do.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s time they don’t have to.”

Host: The rain thickened now, washing the streets, carrying small rivers of dirt and waste through the cracks in the pavement. It gleamed in the dying light — beautiful and tragic all at once.

Host: Jack and Jeeny stood under the overhang of a nearby stall, watching the storm turn the alley into a mirror. Their reflections blurred and bled together, indistinguishable in the rippling water.

Jack: “You really think humanity can clean itself up?”

Jeeny: (softly) “I think it has to. Because every drop of dirty water says otherwise.”

Host: The thunder rolled low, distant but insistent, like a warning wrapped in a heartbeat. The rain fell harder. A child’s voice rose again in laughter — pure, unbroken — echoing against the corrugated roofs and narrow walls.

Host: And in that sound — in that impossible, stubborn joy — something within both of them shifted.

Host: Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was hope. Maybe just the recognition that every act of care, however small, is a rebellion against decay.

Host: Jeeny reached into her pocket, pulled out a folded pamphlet — the logo of a sanitation NGO smudged by rain — and handed it to Jack.

Jeeny: “You wanted to write about something real? Start here.”

Host: He took it. Didn’t answer. Just stared at it, the paper damp, ink bleeding. The rain softened again, the air cooling.

Host: And as they stood there, surrounded by the sound of the earth trying to wash itself clean, they realized that maybe salvation wasn’t grand or heroic — maybe it was as small as water running clear, and as silent as a child surviving till morning.