“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.”
Abdi finished tying his laces. He was twenty-two, but his eyes held the weight of a hundred years. His mother had died of a preventable fever because the nearest clinic was a two-hour matatu ride away. His younger sister had been lured into the sex trade by a smooth-talking broker from Mombasa. The broker now worked for a cartel that ran the port. nitarudi na roho yangu afande sele
Abdi closed his fingers around the pouch. He shook his head. “I have to, Afande,” Abdi whispered