I can hear them breathing. Panting like hunting dogs. Each of them. Dusty air rushing through tensed tracheas. Blood pumping through strained jugulars. Feet pounding the pavement. Startled passers-by turning to locate the source of the commotion.
James stepped onto the aisle and flashed his instinctive smile, looking at no one in particular. He briefly scanned the interior of the minibus and smiled again when he noticed the empty seat beside the aisle on the second row from the back.
They said there would be no guilt. They said that we were soldiers for Allah, that ours was a justified war. They said we would have a great reward when all this was over, that we would live all eternity in the bosom of the Most Merciful. They lied. I don’t believe anything they said anymore. There is no justification, no godliness, in taking innocent life. There is no way we can fight for the Most Merciful, yet show no mercy to those he has given us to share the earth with.
The old man had been staring out into the lake for some time. His spindly legs had long gone stiff, even though his walking stick had the bigger responsibility for his meagre weight.
by Kevin Andego.
“Kindly call for the next file,” was the instruction from the sober umpire, directed to her assistant. She keenly surveyed the people who had punctuated her court room. She sat on her seat of justice, which overlooked the entire court room, with the confidence of a silverback gorilla. Our dear umpire had an ability to focus that could put an eagle to shame.
It scars the grass beside the house, a fresh wound in the lawn. It is a mound of black, the type of black that blends into the night when the day fails. The night seems to start and spread from it.
by Kevin Andego
The story narrated below is fictional; it was only relied upon to advance the topic of this article.
It was a fine morning with a gentle breeze. The sun was still far in the east but the day had unequivocally taken dominion over my part of the world from the night. I was seated on one of the benches in town along the illustrious Omwanda Street and I had lost count of the number of times I had glanced at the city clock.
Falling. I’m falling fast through a cloud, cold droplets of water and tiny ice particles blasting my face, chilling me to the bone. Where am I? Why am I falling? I look around me. Nothing describable but a veil of grey that conceals anything beyond a few metres.