…graine

  He woke weaker than yesterday.

  The hunger sat low and mean. It pressed on his tongue and made his chest feel hollow. But the part that decides was still there. Cold. Clear. Holding.

  If I can’t block it, I move it, he told himself. Move the wave.

  He ran the times again: Fat? after lunch. Wrou about an hour later. Trouble between two and four. The day always walked that line.

  By early afternoon, Fat? was at his stand, blowing on charcoal, laying fish on the rack. Smoke went up in a thin line. Kazeem then did something he never thought he could. This was a bold move after all he was about to interact with an actor of the scene, but this was a gamble that he had to take.

  He crossed the lane and stopped in front of the stand, his hands sweating from the pressure .

  “Hey, bro…how much for one of them?”

  Fat? looked up, surprised. “Oh? First sale today. Let’s do five cauris.”

  Hissss. That hurt his pocket.

  “Can’t you do three?”

  “Three?” Fat? snorted, hands fast with the twine. “Little ghost, some days I sell at six. If you don’t have money, go fill your belly with water.”

  He was already used to be called like that , in fact people barely knew his real name and just decided to go with nicknames .

  “…four?”

  A small pause. Then a shrug. “Okay. But first and last time.”

  “Mm.” Even though he felt swindled , He decided to let it pass. He wasn’t here to win the price. He was here to use the fish.

  It took more than half an hour. The rack crackled. Heat settled on shoulders and stayed there. People argued over plantains two rows down. Kazeem watched the light slide across the clay bowls.

  Wrou showed up at the end of the lane while the fish finished. Broad shoulders. Slow steps. The kind of man who took space without asking. He wasn’t at the seam yet, but he would be. Right on time.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The fish came off the rack wrapped in leaf, warm in his palm. The smell was good. His mouth watered. His stomach said eat. The other hunger said no. He didn’t bite, he couldn’t anymore.

  He walked, not fast, not slow, like a boy with nothing heavy in his head. He passed calabashes, chilies, folded cloth, the tray of cheap combs. He wasn’t looking for her, but he found her: the mother with the baby. She was near the grain seller, still far from the quarrel corner, ticking off small errands.

  He timed it. Two steps past her, he put a hand to his stomach and let his face pull tight.

  “Arrrgh.”

  “Hey, son… are you okay?” the mother asked. The baby blinked at him over her shoulder.

  “Hm… yes, Auntie. I ate fish from Brother Fat? and my stomach started hurting.”

  “Heh? He gave you rotten fish?”

  “I don’t know oh. It looked like the others.” He pressed the leaf bundle to his belly like that would help.

  She shifted the baby higher and leaned away without meaning to. “Go home. Drink water. I was about to buy some , but I don’t want to catch whatever you have.”

  “Yeah… I’m going home,” he said, and shuffled off.

  Three steps later, his back straightened. Ten steps and the limp was gone. A thin smile came and went.

  Simple. If the mother never gets to the mat, her heel won’t catch. No smear. Maybe no laugh. Maybe no… no loop.

  He tucked himself a row away, where he could see the seam without being in it. Dust rose and fell. A girl counted peppers with her lips. Someone beat the dust from a cloth. Fat? changed the selling cloth on his table. Wrou came closer, eyes on the space between them.

  The mother didn’t come. She was gone into another path.

  Hope touched his chest, small and light. He let himself breathe a little deeper. He turned, thinking the fullness might meet him on the road for once.

  SLAP!

  “!!”

  The sound cracked across the row. He spun back. The fight had lit anyway, sharp, ugly, then smothered by nearby hands before it could grow. A clay bowl broke. A crate scraped the ground. The guard lifted his baton and shouted, but he didn’t wade in.

  Kazeem drifted closer, catching the tail of the talk.

  “Ha! How can Unc Wrou talk about someone’s father like that?” a man grumbled, setting the crate upright.

  Another voice, lower: “Always that line. ‘Your father—’ as if papers let him cut people in public.”

  There was a short laugh from somewhere. Not friendly. Wrou’s jaw was tight. Fat?’s chin was high. The air had that thin, mean feel it gets after a public cut.

  So even without the trip, he still said it. The thought landed clean. The line alone can light it.

  But the scene was … shorter this time.

  He didn’t argue with it. He stood still and let the truth sit until it felt solid.

  The whisper found him, close to the ear, dry as leaves:

  Gb?.

  “!”

  A little fullness washed in, just a mouthful. Not enough to carry him out of the loop. Enough to say you moved something. His eyes stung; he blinked it away.

  He watched Wrou dust his hand and pull his mat straight like it had insulted him. He watched Fat? rub a clean spot on his cloth though there was no smear today. Neighbors talked like nothing much had happened. The minute closed its teeth.

  He walked the outer path home. The fish cooled in his hand. He didn’t eat it. He didn’t throw it away. He kept it as proof the plan had moved a piece.

  At the porch, he rinsed his fingers and the leaf under the thin stream. The smell went down the drain. The bundle stayed closed. His mother wasn’t there to ask. The room let him pass without questions.

  He lay down before the light turned orange. The boards over his head were quiet. He stared until his thoughts lined up.

  One change isn’t enough. Kill the stumble and the “father” line in the same breath.

  There. Plain. No arguing with it.

  He pictured the mat corner shorter—pinned, tied, or weighted so soft that nobody blamed anyone. He pictured Wrou turning his head for a little while—counting pots, answering a call, checking a delivery. No stumble. No line. Then no slap.

  The hunger shifted like an animal rolling over. Still there. Quieter.

  He touched his chest once. His heartbeat answered steady.

  He closed his eyes. No smile. This place took smiles you didn’t earn.

  Tomorrow, he told himself. New plan .

  Move one thing and the hour reroutes. Move two and it stops.

  Sorry for the delay , still at work so can’t write too much .