Abdi finally looked up. The fire in his eyes had settled into a cold, hard ember. He reached into his shirt and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch—a kiongo —that contained a pinch of soil from his mother’s grave and a lock of his sister’s hair.
Abdi paused, his silhouette a dark cutout against the flickering neon light of a roadside kiosk. nitarudi na roho yangu afande sele
“You go to Mombasa tonight, you set that fire, you disappear… or they kill you. I will never see you again.” Abdi finally looked up
“Sele,” he said, his voice steady for the first time that night. “The police took my father. The cartel took my sister. Poverty took my mother. The only thing I have left that is truly mine is my will. My roho.” Abdi paused, his silhouette a dark cutout against