Zanya took quick, confident strides across the road toward the church construction site, the uneven hem of his trousers striking his ankles. In a few minutes, he’d have them rolled to his knees, stomping barefoot in a shallow pit mixing clay-rich soil, water, and grass for a sludge that would be poured into wood molds for bricks. He did not mind the walk but would have preferred to drive the mission’s Bedford pickup this early morning, fiddling with the radio, desperate to hear a song that mirrored his cheerful mood.
Gary Parson oversaw maintenance of the mission facilities, and he had borrowed the pickup for an errand to Keffi. He volunteered to bring back materials the laborers needed from their supplier and would return the pickup to the site later today, the bed of it filled with bags of sand and gravel. All this week, Zanya had seen admiration in the eyes of the young boys on the street, the men who greeted him at Shigudu’s or Flo’s restaurant.
Mothers in the marketplace had called out to him, hoping for an anecdote he had forgotten to mention on Sunday, one that they would be in possession of to share with their children. He talked to them though he did not retell the story. He did not want to relive the memory of that night.
If he thought too deeply about what could have happened to him in Yawari, a pit of fear took shape inside his mouth, one as hard and grainy as a cashew seed, and it would seem intent on going deep into his body, seeking to lodge. And Nami. .