The World Is Ours by Lucie Chihandae

Author:Lucie Chihandae [Lucie Chihandae]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 2sistars Media , LLC
Published: 2022-06-16T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Kevin started.

It was not the loud, distorted noises from outside that woke him; it was the dream. Shenzi’s storytelling had morphed into a frantic cry, and the crier was Desire telling him she needed him to come home soon. The distress on her face gnawed at him, and he tried to soothe her animatedly, letting her know he was heading home. He would see her soon, but she kept crying. It was as if she could not hear him.

He got frantic and the frustration jolted him from sleep, and for a moment he was not sure where he was, then the familiar surroundings and his senses swirled, merged, and became one.

“Bampa!” he called out, then remembered names here were different. “Anatoli!”

He scrambled off the thin mattress that was cradled on an overused bed with metal springs that groaned and grumbled as he leaped off it.

Kevin reached for the door and swung it open; the sun flooded into his eyes, and he blinked, blinded.

There was commotion outside, and Kevin started to panic, heading right into the melee, where throngs of men and a handful of women gathered, yelling and talking simultaneously. He scanned the small crowd rapidly, his eyes sweeping through women and men.

He touched a man beside him and asked him the time; the man shook his head and continued shouting back at another man on the opposite side. Several minutes passed, and he was none the wiser on the cause of the commotion. He withdrew and returned to his room. His bag was still on the floor beside the bed.

Kevin searched through his clothes and emptied his bag looking for the pouch of gold, but it wasn’t there. He searched twice over to be sure. The noise outside finally died down, but his confusion mounted. He picked up the jacket he had worn when the storm started and ransacked the pockets, maybe…. His hands felt something. It was the photo of him and Shenzi, and in a tight roll next to it were a couple of loose Congolese francs, not enough for a day’s meal and a scrap of paper with the words, thank you on it.

Kevin sat back, stunned. Not fully comprehending what was going on, he went out again and inquired of the few people sitting outside. Had they seen a big man with a big voice, and a lean man wearing blue jeans and a white shirt with a cap? He had a limp.

Everyone shook their heads as he labored to describe the men to them with signs. It was aggravating that no one could speak English or Luganda; they did not pay him any mind. Despair and rage gripped him. He slumped onto the grass, dejected. An absolute acceptance of the situation dawned on him; they had abandoned him and were not coming back.

The people in the boarding place came and went in shifts. A pickup truck came by early in the morning and later in the afternoon dropped some people off and then picked up others.

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