Israel Umoh
April 25 arrives like an old guest with a rehearsed greeting. It is called World Malaria Day. Governments will issue statements. Experts will share graphs. NGOs will post videos of mosquito nets being hung with delicate ceremony over frail iron beds. There will be talk of progress. There will be talk of hope. But malaria—the ancient enemy—will still be here tomorrow morning.
The world has lived with malaria for centuries. And perhaps that’s the problem. We have grown used to it. Like the proverbial house rat that dodges every trap and returns with even more arrogance, malaria has adapted to our indifference. The parasite remains undefeated not just by science, but by systems, by politics, and by the thinness of our resolve.
Malaria is not a stranger to the annals of history. It haunted the Roman Empire, claimed the lives of troops in World War II, and held sway in nearly every tropical region of the world. But while much of the developed world fumigated it into oblivion, Africa has been left holding the carcass.
Today, over 90 per cent of malaria deaths occur in Africa. It kills nearly 600,000 people every year—most of them children. This is not just a medical statistic. It is a political embarrassment and a moral tragedy. How do you explain to a grieving mother that her child died of a disease the world already knows how to prevent?
If malaria were a disease of airports and stock exchanges, it would have been wiped out by now. But it is a disease of villages, of slums, of places where roads turn to footpaths and clinics are closed by dusk. The problem with malaria is not just the parasite. It is the postcode of the people who suffer from it.
When COVID-19 arrived, it triggered a global frenzy. Vaccines were developed in record time. Nations competed to out-vaccinate each other. Billions of dollars were released with urgency. But malaria? It receives polite interest. A side event at global health summits. A photo-op for well-meaning foundations.
And here lies the cruel irony: malaria is preventable and treatable. We know the enemy. We even know the weapons—mosquito nets, antimalarial drugs, environmental control. But what we lack is sustained political will and financial muscle to finish the job.
Scientists are careful people. They speak in measured tones, especially when it comes to malaria. One day, a vaccine is “a breakthrough.” The next, its efficacy is “modest.” Take RTS,S, the long-awaited malaria vaccine—it offers around 30–40% protection. That’s a start. But in the face of a disease this deadly, it’s hardly a trumpet-worthy victory.
In the labs, mosquitoes evolve faster than the chemicals meant to kill them. Artemisinin-based drugs, once the gold standard, are now facing resistance. In places like Southeast Asia, the parasite is becoming bolder. It shrugs off medicine like a stubborn virus resisting antibiotics.
Meanwhile, on the frontlines—where nurses mix chloroquine with paracetamol and hope—there is confusion. Which drug works? Which doesn’t? Which test can be trusted? Experts argue. Patients die.
Let’s talk numbers. To effectively control and eventually eradicate malaria, the WHO estimates the world needs about $7 billion annually. In 2023, global spending stood at roughly half that amount. Half a budget for a full-blown war.
Compare that with COVID-19: within months, global funding for its response surpassed $100 billion. Malaria, it seems, is expected to live on handouts. It survives on goodwill and donor fatigue. It is funded like a charity case, not a crisis.
Even African governments—those who should be most concerned—allocate less than 15% of their national budgets to health. And within that sliver, malaria fights for attention alongside dozens of other needs. Ministries plead. Hospitals ration. And patients pay the price—in blood, sweat, and very often, their lives.
It is not enough to raise awareness. People who live with malaria are already painfully aware. What is needed is action—strategic, bold, and unrelenting.
African countries must treat malaria as their war to win. Dependence on donors is not a strategy. Domestic investment must rise, not just in health systems but in local research and production of medicines and vaccines.
Mosquito nets are distributed every year, but who checks if they’re used? Who monitors drug quality in rural clinics? Reports must stop being glossy brochures and start being instruments of accountability.
The digital age should not skip our health systems. Mobile surveillance, drone delivery of medical supplies, AI in tracking mosquito patterns—these are not luxuries. They are necessities
No battle is won from the air alone. Community health workers must be empowered and respected. Education campaigns must be in local languages, rooted in culture, and focused on behavior change, not just handouts.
Malaria is more than a disease. It is a mirror. It shows us who we are, and more painfully, who we are not. It reflects a global health system that often saves the rich and saps the poor. It shows us political leaders who treat health as a speech topic, not a survival issue. It reveals a continent that sometimes waits too long for help from others, instead of helping itself.
But, malaria also shows us our potential. Every life saved is a triumph of science, of compassion, of resilience. We have the tools. We have the knowledge. What we need—desperately—is the will.
As the world marks another World Malaria Day, let the speeches end with action, and let the statistics give way to stories of real change. Because until malaria is defeated, our humanity is incomplete and is still at the edge of holocaust.
