Issue Eighteen (May 2010)
The chickens could always see him.
And the cats. They knew. The chickens and the cats and the roosters and the dogs and the occasional pig. All of them, with their animal intuition, saw past his invisibility and came to his porch, rooted through his bushes, meowed and clucked for food.
I met a man with no shadow today.
He crossed into the village limits near dusk, furtive but resolute. He wanted to find the Mamman. He did not understand my description of the route, partly because he spoke gutter Yoruba learnt from leather traders and partly because I have a stutter.
I’m lying in this yard. It’s raining, and I’m wet and muddy. Fog is everywhere. Don’t remember why I’m here. I try to get up but something yanks me down. It’s a cuff. Somebody’s handcuffed my wrist to a garden pipe. Leaning on the pipe, I get up again on two feet. When I try to walk away, my hand gets stuck half-way through the metal ring. Wriggling it doesn’t work. Kicking at the pipe doesn’t work either, and I fall over again.
“Would you like some coffee?” asked Garay, pouring a sachet of instant coffee mix into her mug.
“No thanks, Ga,” said Rudy, her older cousin, playing with the toaster latch. “How’s lola Mely?”