[Editor’s note: After escaping a rebel attack on a bus and then disguising himself in women’s clothes to escape villagers in Basse upset with an article he wrote regarding their bad bread, Augustine Kanjia found himself in a village where he is allowed to teach. It is February 1994. Despite warnings not to write any more, Kanjia got himself in hot water with another article. This is the third installment of his story.]
Leaving the last police checkpoint near Lamin opened a new challenge.
It was dark and I was quite hungry, but the sun continued to shine on patches of high lands of the village. The village looked like a town, but it was full of trees and potholes. Mosquitoes and rodents were abundant.
I had no extra clothes, neither did I have money to live on. As I walked thinking of my home and how I could not see my grandmother, on whose account I nearly lost my life, I burst into tears walking alone on a lonely path.
Birds reminded me of my home once more, but the sound accompanied good food cooked by my grandmother who brought me up. I saw a crowd on a soccer pitch. It was late, but I was tempted to show myself to the village boys then make friends.
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