It Breaks at The Doorstep

The piercing bars of sunlight snuck into this tiny room through random gaps on the mud wall and the wooden window as the birds sang with exuberance outside.

On one side of the room was a bed that creaked each time a muscle was twitched. It was a small bed, yet two figures were squeezed on its narrow platform and seemed unbothered. A tiny drawer next to the bed held a pale blue ashtray filled with orange cigarette butts and grey ash. An empty bottle of liquor stood next to it and in the air, was the sharp stench of stale tobacco and cheap liquor, this terrible smell stealing every bit of freshness from the morning.

One of the two figures on the bed stirred and pulled away the blanket. She sat up, her face pallid. Her eyes were sickly and ponderous, tears glittering in them. Then she rose slowly, the bed squeaking with each of her movements. The man sleeping next to her grunted and snuggled himself a little tighter.

She jumped over him, crawled to the other side of the bed and pulled open the window, letting the glorious sparkle of the morning light up the room. She squinted as the sun streamed into the room like it owned the place. She adjusted the black faded petticoat that hang loosely on her thin body.

Their three children were squeezed on the floor, huddled on a lean, beaten mattress that had long surrendered, gobbled up by a thick duvet, which had a big hole close to the bottom.

The tall one, sleeping closer to the door kept curling himself further to accommodate his feet in the warmth of the cover. Next to him was his younger sister and then an infant, who started and coughed before breaking into a sharp shrill.

The mother, evoked by the unseating shriek of her precious but embattled bundle, sighed as if she had grown weary of hearing that cry. She reached over and picked it up. The other two sat up, rubbing their eyes languidly as each yawned to the bright sunlight. The eldest one was about fourteen or fifteen while the other was nine.

“Mum why is Janita crying?” The nine-year old girl asked, not really sure if she too should break down if it turned out that hunger was what disturbed the little one. The mother seemed not to have heard her.

The man was last to wake up. As if compelled by his nightmares than his own volition, he sat up with a start. He was wrinkled, but not due to old age. He had yet to clock forty but looked well past fifty.

He had been battered by life and thus, the skin folded on his face like a sack of balls on a hot day. He yawned noisily as he panned the room. All eyes were on him, red and dreadful, sick and mottled with anger, disgust, apathy. Even little Janita had paused her noisome shrieks and was desperately trying to reach for his nape.

“So what are your plans for today, Friday?” His wife asked, her eyes now full of anger. He half turned to her.

“What do you mean?” He asked ignorantly. He did not meet her eyes nor the children’s. He did not want to see the expectations, the desperation, the contempt in them. So instead, he looked down at his feet, almost in shame.

“Where are we headed?” His wife snapped, “What are we to do with things getting worse each day?”

There was anger and frustration in her voice. But more importantly, there was pain, a deep-seated agony from hopelessness.

He turned his eyes to the window, to the vast blueness of a vacant sky outside, to the empty chambers of heaven, up to the callous gods looking down at his misery and choking with laughter. Sweet heavens were now like the liquor bottle next to him, magnificently full of nothing.

“I will do something about it-”

“When? When, Friday?” His wife gave a teary interjection, “After we have all been kicked out of this shack? Do you think we even have it in us to stay in this sun without feeling sick?”

“I will take care of everything.” He repeated himself, for what else was there to say? He had run out of vocabulary just as he had run out of money and opportunities.

“You keep saying that!”

“Just give me time!” He snapped at her, his temple webbing with veins, throbbing rhythmically to the rampant throb of his solemn heart.

Then he immediately felt bad about it. He was the cause of this trouble they were going through. They were as faultless as he was guilty.

“I can’t promise anything,” He said in a contrite tone, “You of all people should know that. I’m doing my best.”

“We could have avoided all this if only you had let me go out and work too –”

“You sit here and take care of the children.” He said firmly. “If I leave then you leave, who will watch the children?”

“Jeremy here is old enough –”

“We cannot leave these children alone. You talk as if you don’t know these slums.”

“I always would have found someone to care for the children –”

“I said I want you to stay home and care for the children. Yaishe.” He muttered as he reached under the bed.

The wife shook her head and sniffled as tears began falling down her sad eyes. She rocked back and forth, trying to keep the young one from crying.

“I don’t know if I want to stay here any longer with you.” She said suddenly.

That startled him. He sat stoically as the seconds passed, each pounding home the meaning, the impact of that statement. He felt his heart combust into a flame, not of fury, but one of frustrations, a culmination of the trouble that had been brewing.

“You are not leaving me.” He said, his teeth clenched, his voice firm, his mind pleading for her to reason with him.

But the wife shook her head as her face wrinkled in pain and sorrow. Tear dribbled freely from her eyes. Down on the mattress, the nine-year-old too began silently sobbing, while Jeremi, the oldest one, sat up, staring pensively ahead.

“I am short of options, Friday.” His wife said, “If you will not let me find a job, then I’d rather leave you and find another way to fend for myself and my children.”

He looked away, still avoiding everybody’s eyes. He reached for his clothes, which he had folded up into a makeshift pillow and put them on as his children looked away. Then he moved along and sat on the edge of the bed and put on the yawning shoes he had pulled from under the bed.

Then he motioned for his son to fold the mattress to afford room for him to maneuver through. He stretched and pulled open the door open, letting in more of those pleasantly warm rays of sunshine. Perhaps these rays signified something good was in the offing. He skipped out without as much as a glance back. In the house, an awkward silence remained.

“I want the two of you to wash all your dirty clothes.” Mother said as Jeremy and his younger sister moved to action.

***

He skipped carelessly over the sewage flowing in between the shanties, passing women who were bent over washing clothes.

He then came upon a dirt road and turned to the left towards the market, restrained deeply in his thoughts. A few days had turned to months, which turned to years that eventually turned to a decade. Time moved fast. Or was he moving rather slow for time? He jerked as a fellow stepped on his toes, bringing back to the present.

How fair it would be if lady luck smiled, nay, laughed down at his balding head, hair thinning not from age but from stress and the many ailments that came with living in apathy and poverty. But lady luck was not smiling at his head. The sun was scorching his shining scapel, perhaps responsible for the delicious smell of something good cooking – his thoughts.

He didn’t look up, not at the groceries, not at the kiosks that yawned from the tire of their equally battered owners and not at the supermarkets that often lacked the courtesy to sell something fresh for once. His stomach made frequent complaints of hunger, drawing a groan, possibly a scowl of murderous intent, from him.

As he passed a two-storey building, something smashed against his head and began trickling down his temples and forehead. Someone had dumped dirty water on him. He didn’t bother to look up. For what? He didn’t want to see that middle finger aimed at him. He just wiped it away as diplomatically as he could with the back hem of his shirt and went on wading through his thoughts.

He touched the little hair that still clung onto his miserable cranium. Too bad he had not combed his hair. Maybe the thoughts would have been kinder if his hair was neater. Trouble, misery. And the sweet scent of something frying. Chapatis tossed into the air. He neared the den. The woman watched him approach.

“Ya ngapi mzee?” She asked, flipping the round flour dough she was rolling.

He gestured for two. She turned and began scrounging for a nylon bag. He responded swiftly, lifting several with blinding agility, dipping them into his back pocket as he melded into the crowd of the slum dwellers. Behind, the woman let out a cry. He ducked into an alley. In these parts, alleys always led somewhere and he knew he was unlikely to come undone by a dead end so he disappeared down that way.

***

But things wouldn’t always be like this. Previously the bad days had always been followed by the good and he hoped this would be same. But the bad days this time had overstayed their welcome. Never before had he been on the brink of eviction as it was this time. Never before had he been on the brink of starvation as he was this time.

God curse that useless President and his love for those suits that look like those worn by that North Korean leader.

Memories jumped back to the good old days. How infectious was a smile when there was plenty; plenty to eat, plenty to excrete, plenty to waste too?

Their shadows would dance on the walls as they hunched over the tiny candle light on the tiny table and brought the mountain of food to its knees. Actually they ate even its knees as the shadows danced, the candle being the shadow choreographer. And a joke was shared too, and if it wasn’t, even a belch was hilarious, a fart was a rib cracker.

Then came days like these, days that just stumbled in and plonked themselves in the room like they belonged there. Days of empty pockets, empty stomachs, empty promises. And good memories would wander away too, so also empty memories. Good times were forgotten, and he would quickly be reminded of them. He took out the bundle of chapatis he had taken unceremoniously. He counted them. Six.

He took two and shoved the rest back into the pockets of his black, ill-fitting trousers that sagged unceremoniously from his thinning waste. Grumpily, he stuffed the chapatis into his mouth as he came up to a narrow street that had a few shops but still plenty of people.

A tarmacked road passed through here. A few feet away, children had converted the road into a playfield, kicking about a football with abandoned bliss.

He spat as he walked up a stream. He was now nearing the highway, where a market thrived.

He slowly ambled up to the market. The traders called at him; Sukuma wiki mkubwa, nyanya freshi. He swallowed the last of his chapatis as he moved in between the throbbing bodies.

The smell of rotting vegetables filled the air as he maneuvered his way between the bodies of people stopping to buy the vegetables.

The then came up to the edge of the road where the vehicles sped past and looked on. Dead at the centre of the road, a black shadow appeared, almost human but not quite. It lifted a hand and beckoned.

Friday closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Perhaps this was the time that he needed to end it. The good times were never coming. His life was never going to change for the better. He would never get that good job he wanted. So, why bother continuing existing in this mortal coil of misery?

He opened his eyes again. The shadow still beckoned with slow, graceful motions. It danced daintily in the road. Maybe he could find the joy to dance like that in death. He smiled and nodded to the black shadow.

He walked much closer to the curb and waited. The road was less busy, but a bus was speeding towards him. A strike from the bus would be instant, he thought, inching closer to the road.

The bus roared closer. He could hear the sweet turbo spool of its engine as it neared. It wasn’t moving particularly fast, but the mass of its large body would do damage at that speed.

He inched closer. The bus got closer. He closed his eyes and imagined a better world. Then, he made a step forward.

A hand gripped him firmly from the back and pulled him back.

He opened his eyes just as the bus flew past him, leaving behind a very strong wake that almost threw him off-balance. It was moving fast and that speed would have put him out of his misery in an instant. So, who was this idiot that had stopped him?

“Oh my God, that bus almost crushed you! Are you okay?” A woman’s voice said.

He turned. A woman was staring at him with some concern. Then, her eyes widened, partly in shock, partly in recognition.

“Faraday?” She called.

He was stunned. Who was this woman that knew his name as it was supposed to be? Faraday and not the Friday bullshit his wife often spewed out.

She was gorgeous, he noticed, her brown eyes intense and piercing. Those eyes flickered as she broke into a smile. Faraday squinted and winced. He bit his tongue as he ransacked through his fusty, festering memories, trying to dig a familiar face to match the woman. And she didn’t spare his slaving with a failing memory.

“Remember me?” She asked, looking at Faraday up and down, seeming to ignore his trouble recollecting her. He hemmed and hawed. Then he scowled as if he had ingested aloe vera juice and looked at her suspiciously. Then he knit his brows and skewed his lips. Flashes of recall. Um...uhh...dammit...she is who she is. Maam are you here to give me a job or not? I don’t know you.

“I’m sorry, I will if you remind me.” He said, keenly studying her to mark out any familiarity. A former employer perhaps.

“It’s Lucy,” she snapped, giggling in excitement, “Lucy Ndeti. We were in the same class in Sky Rise Academy.”

The wind paused. The trees went awkwardly silent. He felt as if he had been rudely hit in the head by a rod. His jaws dropped as his heart took a deep breather. His eyes, blurring with tears and widened with paralyzing marvel, lingered on her as the familiarity finally struck home.

Of course it had to be Lucy. He could see it now.

“L...Lucy?” He stuttered, his lips still moving even after he had stammered out that name.

“Yes.” She smiled more broadly. “Unanikumbuka sasa?”

Suddenly, his memory flew into top gear, and the evocative frames came in a deluge. A blissful, nostalgic childhood reminisce.

The teary evenings in the staffroom for noise making. The awkward, gritty, grounding competition in English and Kiswahili lessons. The strange attraction and the mocking of the whole class when that dripping, uncomfortably wet kiss landed on her unsuspecting cheeks. Then the tears that came after and the embarrassment that followed. And then, the turn around a few years later to becoming closer friends.

And she still held onto that quiet comeliness of her formative years. The beauty still stood, only more mature now. The beatific, large eyes that captivated and never let go, that once made his pre-teen heart flutter and his lips stutter and his emotions gush and his blood rush, oh those comely eyes, they still were there, now more familiar to him than they had been previously.

“Wow, you look like you don’t belong here.” Faraday said with an embarrassed smile.

“I am here for fresh veggies,” she said, pointing to the bag she was carrying filled with fresh veggies. “You don’t look so good.”

Faraday felt a lump on his throat, which then brought tears into his eyes. He curled his toes, hunched his shoulders and cringed as his whole face sank in shame. He looked down.

“Why are you getting vegetables from here, though?” Faraday asked, “Shouldn’t you be getting them from a supermarket at the mall of something?”

“I live around here and this is where I get my fresh veggies from.” She said, “Want to come with me? For a cup of tea perhaps? You look like you could use a cuppa.”

Her voice was mellow and now that he had refreshed his memory, she was too familiar to forget. She had changed little still. Only more grown. And rich, or at least, not struggling for a meal like he was.

What a nasty sense of humor life had. A close friend, or former close friend, living just a few meters from where he lived, drowning in money as he sank deep in misery.

“Okay, Lucy,” he mumbled as he fidgeted and trembled violently, “But I have to admit I am embarrassed.”

“It’s okay.” She said sweetly as she led the way.

***

As she opened the gate to her apartment block, Faraday could feel the wealth in the air. It came from the calming trees which lined the streets, or was it from the large iron gate which creaked sweetly to let him in. Or did it come from the majestic cars parked outside, or the beautiful apartment with pink façade.

They took an elevator to the third floor, where she let him in on a beautiful, spacious room that looked something straight out of a real estate magazine.

“Please take a seat, Farah. I hope it’s okay to call you that.” Lucy said with a smile.

“It’s no problem,” Faraday said, sitting down on the couch adjacent to the door. “Wow, this is nice.”

The room looked beautiful with it’s white walls, maroon curtains which hang majestically on the large windows that let in much of the sunlight.

“So tea or juice?” She asked, smiling benevolently at him.

He asked for water, hoping she would read into his shyness and see that he was dying for something to eat. He actually was screaming ugali and beef stew. Speaking of food, he reached for his pockets. The three chapatis had gone cold now and he wondered what to do with them if he left here full.

“I will make you something small to eat too.” Lucy said as she walked into the kitchen.

His balls retreated further into his crotch. Sweet old Lucy. Still the same with that beautiful heart some fifteen or so years later. Oh, how some people never change. How beauty, sometimes, never fades.

“You look sick, Faraday.” Lucy opined as she emerged a few minutes later with a plate of steaming rice and meat stew.

At the sight of the food, his stomach groaned and the hunger coursed in jubilant palpitations. He cleared his throat as he prepared to speak. He received the plate, muttered thank you and dug in. She put a jug and a glass of juice on the tiny table next to him.

“What happened Farah? You had a great future.” She asked again.

Faraday shifted his eyes uneasily before finally deciding to look at her, though timidly, as of a dog looking at its master after a moment of mischief.

“Lucy,” Faraday gasped, fighting back the tears welling in his eyes as the torture of regret took over him. “Lucy, I... I... I don’t know.”

He paused and studied her. Was she really interested in knowing what he went through? Or was she just being polite? He looked down at the scaly, dry skin of the hand holding the spoon.

“I mean, after my father and mother died, I –”

“Oh my, you lost both parents?” Lucy exclaimed. Faraday nodded. Lucy’s face went glum, her eyes full of sorrow as she looked at him.

“Farah, I am so sorry.” She said. It was more of a whisper, as tears welled up in her eyes too.

Faraday choked on his tears, putting the food down.

“I couldn’t afford to get into university and so I decided to take up a job to see if I could save up enough for college…” his voice tapered off once again as those tragic memories flowed back, those memories he had been trying his best to shove to the back of his mind.

“It was supposed to be temporary, that job, but before I knew it, here I am, almost a decade later. I don’t know how it happened. It’s almost as though I slept one night and woke up today, older and still in the same place.”

Lucy’s eyes continued to water, in sorrow of what had become of her once great friend. She whispered I’m sorry once again, but her voice was chocking so it was barely audible.

“But enough of my troubles,” Faraday said, “I see you are doing quite well.”

“I am doing well,” she affirmed. “I guess for me things just went right at the right time. I went into engineering but soon after uni, I couldn’t land a job. So I leased land back home and tried out rabbit farming. Now, here I am.”

Faraday felt mocked. The pride in her voice plundered that much regret into him. She was bragging. But yet she wasn’t. She was just relishing how her life had panned out. she made it all seem so easy.

He looked around the walls. Photos of the family hang on almost all four of them. They featured prominently Lucy, a man and two teenage children, a boy and a girl.

“That’s your family?” He asked, pointing to one of the photos that had the four of them soaked in the white sands of the beach. Lucy looked up and a smile spread on her lips.

“Yes.” She said. Then she turned to him.

“You are not eating Faraday.” She observed. Faraday sighed. He took a spoonful of the food and stuffed it in his mouth. It was delicious, sumptuous but why could he barely enjoy it? He shook his head.

“I just can’t believe it.” He dribbled as tears finally trickled down his cheeks. “I’m a failure Lucy, a failure!”

“Faraday you are not –”

“Don’t try to make me feel better Lucy.” He cried as he looked at her, “I know what I am.”

Wrapped on her wonderful face was concern, her eyes were bleeding with sympathy, her lips trembling with emotion. But there was also a certain undercurrent of confusion in the way she looked at him. She still was in disbelief that this beaten, scrawny man barely holding it together was the same classmate who had been so bright it had been blinding.

“I’m at that point, Lucy,” He said as he wiped away tears from his swollen eyes, “At that point in life when you have lost the fear of certain things. If you have failed repeatedly, you just stop fearing failure and death. You stop hoping for something better. If anything, death becomes something you look forward to.” His voice broke off as he cried his heart out.

Lucy looked down at him. She took the plate from his agitating hands and took him in a hug.

“I’m sorry about all you have gone through, Farah,” she comforted, “But while misery takes you to some dark places, what you do from there is your choice.” She let him be and looked into his eyes.

“You are like a brother to me, Farah, and I hate seeing you in this situation. Say, do you want any help?”

Faraday nodded.

“What kind of help?”

“An opportunity.” Faraday said without thought. Yes. It was all he needed. “I just want an opportunity for my children to finish school and not end up like me. I don’t want my sins to be visited upon them. They deserve better.”

As he spoke, she sat next to him, paying keen attention to him such that even the dog’s incessant barking couldn’t call her away. The more he went on, the lighter he felt. It was almost as if shackles were being freed from him.

They went on and dug out their past, rekindling those sweet memories of childhood. He spoke endlessly and she gave him all her ears. She also gave him comfort. She was happy, he could tell and he found himself flustered when she assured him with a smile.

Her life had just turned out so incredible that he began to feel jealousy rankle at the basement of his emotional chambers. But it soon gave way to admiration and pride. Pride in her. He was proud that she had done so incredibly well despite being offered nothing but the raw deal during her formative years. He was proud of her. Her energy and effervescence wasn’t because she was bragging. Rather it was born of contentment, happiness in having accomplished what she set out to do. Self-actualization.

Their childhood, their cries, laughter and a little superficial reminisce of that love that never got to be. Divergent was what would best describe their life paths. Engrossed in the power of nostalgia, both were rudely interrupted by the sound of an imam calling the Muslim faithful for evening prayers at a nearby mosque. It was quarter to seven and the sun had already wrapped, darkness engulfing what remained of daylight. The day has flown by, just as Faraday’s life had.

Faraday sighed and got up.

“I have to go, Lucy,” He said, scratching his scalp, looking lost. He fought within himself for a time, but then figured that failing to ask for help would be falling into the same old behavior of letting opportunities pass him by.

“I’m afraid I have nothing to feed my family, Lucy.”

It was about time that he resigned to what he was now - a beggar.

“Do you have your C.V with you?” Lucy asked suddenly.

“Yes,” Faraday nodded, “but I’m afraid it can’t amount to much as I haven’t updated it in years.”

There was disappointment palpable in Lucy's face as she now looked at him rather disapprovingly.

“Faraday, you can’t keep doing this to yourself and your family.” She said, her voice lilting in discontentment. “You can’t just give up on life like that.”

Faraday shook his head somberly but did not offer a response. Lucy picked her phone from her the table next to where she was seated.

“Give me your number and I will see how to help you.”

“My phone has been acting up for a few days now. I left it at home.” Faraday said. “I can give you my wife’s number.”

“Okay then.” Lucy said, getting to her feet. “And your wife what does she do?”

“Oh she takes care of the children.” Faraday said. “Though she has also been doing some odd jobs here and there.”

“Okay,” Lucy nodded, “Does she want something to do? I could use some help in this house.”

“Uh, when you call her, maybe you can ask her,” he said, “but I think she will be okay with the arrangement.”

Lucy nodded. She asked him to sit for a while as she skipped away. She came back with a plastic bag containing maize flour and a packet of rice. She handed it to Faraday, who, overwhelmed with gratitude, stuttered and stammered endless thank yous. She smiled and walked him to the door, where she reached for his hand and squeezed a few notes into his rough palms. Once more, Faraday was elated this time to the point of breaking down.

“Take care, Farah,” she said sweetly, “And remember you don’t have to remain as you are. I’ll call your wife tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” Faraday said, “and thank you once more, Lucy.”

With that, he turned and rushed out into the cold embrace of the darkness. He walked on the dappled street under the yellow street lights. Same old Lucy. Same old Lucy. She had been a friend and she still was as she had always been - humble, tender, caring. Oh and that reminded him. He opened the palms of his hands and counted the money.

Four thousand shillings! He let that sink in for a moment. Four thousand! God bless you Lucy. From grass to grace. Perhaps there was reason to live after all. Lucy had given him reason to live.

***

Darkness had fully enveloped the land when he found himself trudging through the littered streets of his sorry neighbourhood. Many had closed shop, with a few wrapping it up. Silence was beginning to bear the night.

A lone streetlight, which had been installed four years back as a campaign tool for the area MP, dispersed the yellow floodlight far into the slum, but only stray lights streamed the street where Faraday walked. He came up to a group of women shaded in the darkness, their thighs glittering in the weak light. The night gals were out in their glory and they tried to call at Faraday. Tempting.

He branched from the main street down a dark alley, which was a short-cut to getting home. With no light to guide him, he squelched and splashed into the sewers but again, he didn't care. The iron sheets of the houses rattled from the woofers blasting as people welcomed the night. He walked with his eyes over the shoulder.

This alley was bad, with volent robberies a norm, but he felt safe because the night was still young. He dipped his hands into his pocket and thrust the four thousand shillings in them. then, he remembered those chapatis, now dried and breaking. He threw them away.

Then he reached for the four thousand shillings in his pockets and once again pulled them out, stull in disbelief.

He walked past three men who grunted greetings to him. In front of him, another man walked towards him. Then, the man slipped just in front of Faraday –

A heavy blow at the back of his head sent him face first into the black sewer waters. Before he could recover, his whole body exploded in pain as punches and kicks and the strike of a rod rained on his defenseless self.

He opened his mouth to scream but a vicious stamp on his face arrested it as his jaws broke, a few teeth falling off too. The knocks on his side broke his ribs and there was no reprieve as he was bludgeoned for almost forever.

When they were done, he was a mess, blood seeping through his cloths, making them cling to his body. He was violently ransacked. His pockets were turned inside out, where they found a few coins and a note which he had written a few days ago.

“Fala,” One of the thugs said as he kicked Faraday repeatedly on his head, “How are you walking around with nothing?”

“Check the socks,” Another said.

Faraday, unable to move much as his body drowned in a sea of pain, felt them take out his shoes and socks. Nothing.

“Check in his underwear. These days they hide their money there too.” One of the robber said again.

“Wewe, I am not putting my hands on another man’s crotch.” Another said.

There was some push and pull. Faraday tried to move, but the pain would not allow him to move. Then, he felt it. One of the men opened his zipper and began groping around his nether regions, up to this anus.

“Hakuna kitu.” He said as they all proceeded to violently stamp him again. Then all was still.

“Fala. You are full of nothing. Next time have something for us to steal.” He heard a distant voice say before the multiple feet faded.

An alarming silence hang over him now. He coughed as blood choked him, vomiting thick spats of it. In waste, he lay as blood pooled below him, seeping into the murk. His eyes, blurred with tears and blood, looked up to the clear sky. The stars sparkled with an allure he had yet to witness, scintillating in magnificence as if a beckon for him to join their adornment.

They seemed to be calling and he was eager to respond. They were full of endless promises, granting him endless possibilities but if only he could touch them. He stretched the terribly shaking hand with such dogged determination than he had lived by. Then he touched them as the sky blasted into a bright white light.

A dead smile broke on his dead face. In his right hand, clasped tightly and protectively in his closed palm, was the four thousand shillings.