Dejak and Omolo had never seen eye to eye on anything, until today. They spent their entire childhood fighting each other over one thing or another. Dejak was the practical joker, he once had a friend play dead outside Omolo’s hut, smeared him in red ochre to look like he had bled from a spearing.
Gunshots pierced the air, women and children scuttled like roaches across the city streets dodging bullets. An occasional scream of agony as flesh and bone was shattered by flying shrapnel and debris. A woman lay in the middle of the street, one leg was trapped underneath huge concrete debris, and her free leg was broken
Sukuta sat on the ground head bobbing between his spread legs. His right arm rested on his right knee wielding a machete with crimson blood steadily dripping on to the dust near his feet. His son passed out on his lap, his face pale and dirty, his mouth dry and ashy, is arms and legs