…raine

  He knew now he had to hit at least twice. Not just block one thing, break two.

  But he wanted it clean. No mess. A plan that fit the hour like a key.

  He already had one key that turned. The door wanted another.

  He spent the evening walking the market in his head. Where people stood. Where eyes went. Which mouths carried news the fastest. He didn’t know how many loops he’d burned already; it didn’t matter. After trial and error, he had two cuts he trusted. He went to bed early, but sleep didn’t come. He lay there working the edges until they felt smooth.

  He’d run this day too many times to count. Some loops left a nail of pain behind his eye; one ended with blood on his upper lip; in another, voices lagged a half-second behind mouths until he thought he’d go mad. The rack got moved. The chalk backfired. A timing slip half-worked. He steered the mother away and still…SLAP.

  Each try cost him: whispers closer, hunger sharper, a thin sip of fullness that said almost.

  After all that, two things finally held in his head like real keys: stop the stumble and steal the line.

  First key stays the same. Move the wave.

  He kept to the schedule stamped in his head: Fat? after lunch. Wrou about an hour later. Window from two to four.

  When Fat? lit charcoal and the first strips of smoke went up, Kazeem did what he’d done yesterday. He bought a fish, no bargaining this time. Four cauris on the plank, quick, quiet. He didn’t want extra talk.

  The fish crackled, wrapped in leaf, warm in his hand. He found the mother with the baby near the grain seller again, far from the quarrel corner. He passed her with a hand to his stomach.

  “Arrrgh.”

  She glanced over. “Hey, are you okay?”

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

  “From where?”

  “Brother Fat?.”

  “Heh? He gave you rotten fish?”—

  He carried the heat of the bundle away and let his back straighten once she turned. One cut in place. No heel. No smear.

  Now the second key.

  He didn’t go near the seam. He took the long way, working the edges of the market where talk lives , by the water pots, at the pepper stall, beside the man who sells combs and always has time for gossip.

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  He picked three mouths to start with: a boy who runs messages for the school, an auntie who sits and sells kola nuts, and a porter stacking crates. He didn’t give each of them the same words. He didn’t say much at all.

  To the boy, he said, “Heard Unc Wrou is doing a buy-one-get-two for first five buyers. Big show. You like clay cups? Go see.”

  To the auntie, he leaned in, respectful: “Auntie it seems that Fat? dropped to three cauris for the early crowd. Said he wants to bless people today.”

  To the porter, while helping him lift a crate: “They’re saying the pot-man’s doing a silly deal. Sounds fake, eh? But if it’s true…” He let the sentence hang. The porter smiled, because rumor works better when it looks like a joke.

  He didn’t repeat himself in one place. He moved. One seed at the water jars. One by the thread stall. Another near the tea-seller. He changed his tone each time: quick word, light word, gone. He kept his face flat. He didn’t look back to see the rumor take. He knew how markets work. A good deal, even a stupid one, doesn’t need help walking.

  He cut across to a row where the smell of fried plantain was strong enough to hide his breath. He bought nothing. He held the fish and let the leaf warm his palm. He didn’t want to be there when the hour turned. Rule six: don’t interfere directly when the scene start.

  Just after lunch, Fat? set out the day’s cloth and strings of fish. He glanced toward the chalkless seam and rolled his eyes at nothing, that same little habit. An hour later, Wrou came. Shoulders like a door. Chin high. He looked ready to be angry at something; he hadn’t found what yet.

  The rumor found them first.

  A woman asked, “Three cauris today?” hand already in her wrap, testing Fat?.

  Another voice: “Unc Wrou, they say first five buy one pot, get two. Is it true?” A cousin behind her laughed, disbelieving and hopeful at the same time.

  More feet pressed in, not a crowd yet but enough to change the air. Questions layered. The five turned to seven, because numbers grow when mouths carry them. Busy hands, busy eyes. Busy men.

  Kazeem didn’t watch the seam. He listened from a row away, face turned to the brass seller like he cared about a dented tray.

  Fat?’s voice, tight: “Who said three? I sell at four today, only for the first two, then five. Don’t make me a fool.”

  A man laughed. “But my cousin said—”

  “Your cousin can eat air,” Fat? snapped, already tying twine, already explaining.

  Wrou, irritated: “Who told you nonsense? Buy one, get two? Am I a church?”

  “Maybe just for today?” someone tried, grin wide. “To bless us?”

  “I will bless you with a fair price,” Wrou said, pulling a pot down and tapping it like proof. “Good clay, no crack. Not a joke.”

  More questions. More hands pointing. A kid tugged Wrou’s sleeve to ask if big pots counted. Two aunties argued whether “three cauris” meant small fish or the good ones. A guard passed, heard the noise, slowed, frowned, then kept walking because nobody was shouting yet.

  The minute that used to bloom into SLAP! came… and slid past.

  There was a bump, someone’s basket catching the edge of a stool. There was a short, sharp laugh, that mean one that scrapes pride, but it hit a wall of questions and bounced off. “Your father” never arrived. The line had no space to breathe.

  Kazeem stood with his back to a pole, counting breaths. Ten. Twenty. He gave it a full minute. Another.

  No trip. No line.

  He stepped away from the market and took the outer path. The sun sat warm on his neck. The fish had gone cool in his hand. He walked alone, expecting the taste to meet him somewhere between the trees and the road.

  It came like a door opening.

  Fullness. Not a mouthful—a clean pour. The hunger went soft, like a knot untied. His legs felt light for the first time in days. Breath went in, easy. He kept walking because stopping felt like he might cry and he didn’t want to do that where someone could see.

  It worked.

  His hands tingled. It wasn’t power, not in any way he knew to name, but he felt… more. Like someone had taken weight off his shoulders he’d forgotten he was carrying. He almost laughed. He didn’t. He let his mouth hold the shape of it without sound.

  He got home steady. On the porch he rinsed his hands and the leaf under the thin stream, more for his nose than for the water’s sake. He set the bundle down. He still couldn’t eat it. That was fine. He had eaten something else.

  Inside, the room was cool. The quiet felt new.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and waited to see if anything would go wrong. Sometimes the world took back what it gave. Nothing snapped. No whisper cut too deep. The only sound was his own breath.

  The tiredness from the past days slid over him all at once, heavy as a wet cloth. His eyes stung. His arms went loose. He let himself fall back and stare at the boards. He didn’t think in words for a while.

  Two cuts. Same breath.

  His eyes closed. The last thing he felt was the loop loosening its hand.

  No SLAP today.

  Keep them busy, and time forgets to fight

  There is something I forgot to say .