Sele didn’t watch the news. He was sweeping the steps of the police post when a shadow fell over him.
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 looked up.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sele said, his voice a low rumble that fought against the drumming rain. “The coast. The drugs. Those men… they don’t have souls to take. They’ll eat yours for breakfast.”
“Karibu nyumbani, mtoto wangu,” Sele whispered. Welcome home, my child.
The silence stretched between them, long and fragile.
“Abdi!” Sele shouted over the storm.
Abdi stood there. Thinner. A long, pink scar ran from his temple to his jaw. He was limping on his left leg. But his eyes… they were no longer cold embers. They were warm. Alive. Free.
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 tilted his head.
“I have to, Afande,” Abdi whispered. “The system you protect… it forgot us a long time ago. I can’t fight the system. But I can burn their warehouse.”