• Short story

    If this was our last

    Last night I was at choba, on the main road next to the filling station. It was 11pm yet the sun shone brightly in the sky. Every other thing was equally amiss, and I clutched the hand of my lover, knowing each breath could be our last. Whether it was the gunshots or all the men in waistbeads and machetes, or the cries of the women as these men went from house to house killing and ravaging, but death was in the air. Death and sorrow; and the anxiety that came from wondering if you were next. I clutched the hand of my lover. I knew he was scared for…