Abdi tilted his head.
“Abdi!” Sele shouted over the storm.
He took off the kiongo and tossed it to Sele, who caught it with a grunt. nitarudi na roho yangu afande sele
“Sele,” he said, his voice steady for the first time that night. “The police took my father. The cartel took my sister. Poverty took my mother. The only thing I have left that is truly mine is my will. My roho.”
Sele didn’t watch the news. He was sweeping the steps of the police post when a shadow fell over him. Abdi tilted his head
He looked up.
“Karibu nyumbani, mtoto wangu,” Sele whispered. Welcome home, my child. “Sele,” he said, his voice steady for the
Sele’s jaw tightened. He knew what Abdi was planning. It was a suicide run. He had seen a hundred boys leave this slum for the coast, their heads full of revenge, only to return in body bags shipped up on a cheap lorry.
He stood up, slinging the bag over his shoulder. The rain parted for a moment, and a single shaft of moonlight cut through the smoke-stained window, illuminating the silver in Sele’s stubble.
Abdi paused, his silhouette a dark cutout against the flickering neon light of a roadside kiosk.
“You didn’t come back for your soul,” Sele said, his voice thick.