It is early afternoon and the merciless Chadian sun has yet to relent. But this does not deter the scores of colourfully clad women who rush into line. They form snaking queues around overwhelmed officials, awaiting their monthly rations of sorghum and cooking oil.
Their chatter is punctuated by the buzz of a nearby market, where tattered bills are exchanged for fistfuls of crickets and cloves; salt and sugar are bartered for spices and pots.