“I told you that you didn’t want to go in there,” Lindiwe says. “Don’t worry, as you can see, we keep the dying ones far away from the living. Come, let’s go see the others.”

I take Angus from her and struggle to regain my equilibrium as I follow her down another corridor. I can hear what sounds like a raging battlefield coming from the other end of it and it’s getting louder with every step.

“It is now bath and feeding time. They are very busy.”

She takes a sudden right turn and then we are in another room, no closed door barring our way this time, no door at all, just an open doorway.

The first thing I notice is the chaos. The long and narrow room includes over two dozen shabby, mismatched cribs, six metal trestle tables, five high chairs, two rusting zinc bathtubs as well as piles and piles of sad, gray terry-cloth nappies, baby grows, and blankets.

Seven women, all equally sweaty and disheveled, tend to approximately two dozen babies, who range in age from a couple of months to about two years old. A definite assembly line has been set up. One woman lifts a baby from a crib, brings it over to a trestle table, undresses it, wipes its bum, and then passes it to one of the two women sitting on the floor in charge of the washtubs.

The baby is then dipped into the water by one of the washers, has a cloth rubbed over it a few times, and is then passed up to another woman at the next trestle table. Here the baby is patted dry, rubbed with a few creams and powders, has another nappy applied, and is then passed to the next woman, who dresses it.

Once this is achieved, the baby is either placed back into a crib and given a bottle to hold for self-feeding, or it’s placed in a high chair, where it’s quickly spoon-fed a vegetable-and-maize mush. The only babies who are crying are the ones who aren’t being held.

I’m just marveling at the fact that Angus can sleep through all the noise when he stirs and wakes up. He starts crying and from the pitch of it, I know he’s hungry.

“I just need to feed him,” I say to Lindiwe.

She points me in the direction of another room. “That’s the kitchen. You can mix his formula there.”

When I come back, ready to feed Angus, another woman is standing next to Lindiwe. She’s wearing a police uniform and introduces herself as Mandy, the social services liaison. “Mrs. Richardson, I’ll need you to come with me to the office to give me your details and write a statement about how you found the baby. After that, you’re free to go.”

Free to go.

As if leaving Angus will be that easy.