I do not know why his story is coming back to me today after almost four months since I met him. I know not why his face comes to my mind, that innocent looking face. I was in Mwanza in January and that is where I met him. He said his name is Luwaya, I’ve forgotten the surname but he told me. His age? He never knew it I presume but he told me some age which I’ve forgotten also, it shows how little I was concerned with his story. He said he was in standard two (or three?) at some primary school in the district. ‘What about school today?’ I fired him, real firing, trying to imbue him with fear. ‘My sister,’ he mentioned the name of the sister but I’ve also forgotten, ‘didn’t bathe me’ he told me, facing away from my gaze. ‘What about your mother?’ another threatening voice. ‘She’s at the market,’ he said and that was the entry point into his life, a life I would like you to understand, a life that has – all of a sudden - started haunting me somehow… His father, he told me, ...
...writings and recollections; thoughts too.