How to fix orphanages

Kigali, Rwanda
Madame B has dressed up for our visit. She’s sitting on a bench with her back to the orphanage wall, talking about just how much she loves each child, but it’s her get-up that’s most impressive: black silk dress, hair done, make-up just so; finger and toenails painted hot pink, each with an elegant white scalloped edge.

Everything else here, at the Mpore Pefa home for children, is muted: grey walls, grey kids, blurred by dirt. Those toes are an anomaly. ‘My husband and I started this home after the war,’ Madame B is saying. ‘Since he died, it is so difficult.’ Her eyes slide from left to right, checking our reaction. ‘The children all want to suckle my breasts,’ she says, gesturing to her chest, full of long-­suffering self-pity. ‘They all want to embrace me.’ Here she pulls a ringwormy tot to her side, smothering it into the silk.