“Where is he?” Jawoli complained to their puppy who was amusing himself with a dried fruit pit. Jawoli poked the cooking fire with a stick, careful not to send ashes into the black pot awaiting water to boil.
Jawoli lay down on his bed mat, hands behind his head, staring up at the low soot-blackened rafters of their single room dwelling. The walls of the place were made of an assortment of odds and ends, wooden planks and adobe bricks. Smoke from the fire lingered at the ceiling and filtered out the open door, while he gazed into the black of night for Kujaguo. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, thankful the late night of work at the Fabrica was now finished until morning. He rose and went to the single nail securing their clothes, located another long-sleeved shirt and put it on.
He leaned
