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By Dr Ivan Edwards
Daniel Asaba
Daniel runs through the night,
breath sharp,
heart pounding…
like a rabbit chased
by village stray dogs.
His mother’s voice
fills his mind.
“Daniel… come home.
I feel something.
I feel danger.
Come home now.”
He reaches home,
slams the door shut,
leans against it,
breathing hard.
His mother appears
in the hallway,
her eyes wide
with fear.
“Daniel,” she whispers,
“what have you done?
What is going on?”
He cannot answer.
Words fail him.
He can only
shake his head.
His mother hugs him.
“You will be fine, my son.
No worries.”
He bids his mother goodnight
and goes to bed,
collapsing in it.
Though shaken,
he is not afraid.
The thought of Amara
shadows his thoughts.
He tries calling her.
No answer.
The line is dead.
He texts her:
I love you.
Says a prayer
and tries
to go to sleep.
Maybe the angels
will watch
over me,
he wonders.
Amara
Still in a nightgown
but not caring,
Amara runs.
She runs
through the darkness,
with her sandals
slapping the earth,
and her breath lost.
The night
swallows her whole.
The wind
smashes into her.
Her heart feels like a drum
being pounded
by merciless kasiiki players.
She stops
under a jacaranda tree,
its purple flowers falling
with quiet blessings.
But there is
no blessing tonight.
Only dread.
The memory
of Daniel’s trembling voice.
The volcano
of Koru’s rage.
And the truth
she has been running from…
that love is dangerous
when tradition is watching.
She presses her back
against the tree,
trying to breathe.
Trying to think.
And trying
to choose.
Her phone is dead,
as is her
peace and joy.
But the night
offers no answers.
Only silence.
Only the distant hum
of something moving
far away.
She flags down
a boda-boda
and heads off
to Bugolobi,
where a friend
waits for her.
Janet has always
been there
for her.
Her home,
a place she can go to.
Janet,
a person whose heart
she trusts.
Koru
The ride home
was quiet.
His driver
didn’t ask questions.
He knew the master.
All quiet means—
Do not disturb.
The master sets
the pace.
That is all
that matters.
At home…
he stands at the window,
watching the darkness,
and the world
he believes
he controls.
But tonight,
something feels different.
Something feels off.
Something feels
dangerous.
He calls Amara.
No answer.
He calls
his mother again.
She says
only one thing:
“Sleep, Koru.
Tomorrow, everything will be handled.”
He hangs up,
but he does not sleep.
He stirs in bed,
breathing hard,
wondering
what just happened,
why Amara ran,
and wondering why the night
is turning against him.
He only knows
that something has begun
that he
cannot stop.
He grabs
a bottle of vodka
at his bedside
and takes a gulp.
A shot will work
to calm my nerves,
he muses.
It always does.
The servants
outside the door
keep watch.
So do the askaris
at the gates
outside.
The Black Car
Under a lonely streetlamp,
a black car waits…
paint shining like oil,
windows dark,
engine rumbling low.
Inside,
four men
sit in silence.
They do not speak.
And do not
ask questions.
They solve problems
for people
with power.
One checks
his watch.
Another
cracks his knuckles.
Another studies
a photograph…
one of Daniel Asaba,
smiling,
unaware.
The leader
nods once.
The car pulls away
into the night.
And the night
follows.
To be continued…
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