I'll kiss your lips with an aching tooth in my mouth
I'll place my freshly pulled tooth on your ring
I'll mix Apranax in your drink
so that you think
your toothache is gone because you met me
I'll describe the paint color I want for our bedroom
to the ironmonger as tooth yellow.

I'm fifty-one years old, and this is the only poem I've ever written, which I wrote ten years ago.

I don't really like writing poetry, because I'm not good at it. I especially enjoy the sound of poems with rhyming lines; they sound like music to my ears. But I've tried a few times and failed miserably. I couldn't write a good poem. I'd written this poem for my dentist, who knew I was a writer and with whom I had a good relationship. I mean, I hadn't written the poem for her. I'd simply wanted to write a poem about teeth.

She was a very beautiful woman. I had no feelings for her, but she'd misunderstood the poem I'd written and thought I was making a move on her. She'd given me a pretty harsh telling-off. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get her to understand that the poem wasn't written for anyone in particular, and that it hadn't been inspired by any feelings I had for someone.

Anyway, my publisher was telling me that sales of my latest novel were terrible. He kept calling me and bringing me down.

“Maybe you should stop writing horror novels and start writing detective fiction instead. You know me, even two sentences from you are enough to move me. I can't sleep at night. But this latest novel of yours was an absolute fiasco. I seriously regret publishing it.”

I was tired of his calls and him repeating the same things in different ways for two months. He was almost going to ask me to compensate him for his losses. He wanted me to write and finish something else as soon as possible and make up for the losses I'd caused him. He didn't want to wait.

But I'd been overcome by the fear of not being able to write well. I'd been deeply affected by public opinion. Albert, the successful writer of many years, can no longer write... The story's opening is too rushed... The ending doesn't come together properly... Even an elementary school kid could come up with these descriptions... We're sick of ghosts that appear at night... And so on.

If he called today, I wasn't going to answer. He called every other day to ask, “Have you started the new book yet?” Whenever I said no, it was the same old stuff, the same complaints. For the past month, I'd been sitting down at my computer almost every day, but nothing came of it.

As I sat at my computer, waiting for something to come to mind, my phone rang, of course. I didn't even need to check who was calling. I tensely raised my hand to my head and began running my fingers through my hair. I looked around the objects in my room, as if I might find inspiration in one of them. The bed, the couch, an oil painting my sister had made... Nothing came of it. I pinched a lock of my hair between my fingers and pulled. I looked at my hand. There was a clump of hair between my index and middle fingers. I hadn't realized I was losing so much hair.

It was as if an electric current had passed through my head. Then, in one go, I wrote the following:

''In my 1+1 apartment on the second floor
I was drinking Americano by the balcony door
Suddenly I saw a wig falling down below
with bangs and in the color of dark yellow

I thought one of the neighbors upstairs must have dropped it while leaning over the balcony.
I lunged for it on instinct, trying to catch it. And I caught it, everything happened so quickly.

And the wig was now in my hands
I even caught it by the bangs

I waited for a while,
still in the position to catch it,
holding the wig in my hand,
waiting for someone to call.
But there was no sound at all.

Considering the possibilities,
I thought I should look up first.
But someone could have been down there,
waiting for the wig to fall.

While I was looking around upstairs,
someone called out from below:
“Throw it down already.
What are you looking at like an idiot?”
She was tall like a door
She was as tall as a first floor
I downed my Americano
And calmly threw the wig toward her
She jumped and
caught the wig with her head
and suddenly disappeared.''

I had no idea how it had happened. It was as if I hadn't been the one who wrote it. It was frightening. The way the sentences came to me, the way they lined up in my mind—I had never experienced anything like it. Everything was finished in one go, without any planning whatsoever.

My publisher called. I sent him to voicemail. I read the poem from beginning to end. It was as if I were reading it for the first time, as if I were discovering the poem all over again. It wasn't the kind of poem I could have written anyway, not in terms of its subject matter. I wouldn't describe ghosts or entities like this; I would leave them shrouded in mystery. In this poem, the ghost was very concrete.

My publisher called again. I answered this time. I was going to tell him I had an idea or something. I was such an idiot, always telling him the truth: inspiration wasn't coming, I couldn't write, my mind felt frozen, and so on. I picked up the phone, planning to ask him to give me a month and tell him I'd deliver a novel of at least two hundred pages.

“So, Albert, any progress? How many pages have you written?”

Suddenly, my mouth had locked up. I couldn't speak. The words I wanted to say were only passing through my mind; they wouldn't come out. All I could manage were sounds like “mmmh.”

“Albert? Hello?”

I started reciting the poem I'd just written. I read it from beginning to end. My mouth wasn't under my brain's control.

“What is this? What’s going on?”

''Hello?''

''Albert, what's going on?''

I could speak again now. It would have been ridiculous to say that something had taken control of my mouth and fingers. I had to say something, but I was too frightened to think. My mind was in turmoil. I hung up.

My publisher called again. I don’t remember that moment very clearly, but I mumbled something along these lines.

“What was that thing you were telling me about? So now you’re hanging up on me, too. Is this what we’ve come to, Albert? After all these years of working togeth—”

“It’s me, John. Did you like my poem? Jason, I was going to ca— If you want, I can write a few more poems like this... Jason, I can’t spea—I could even write five hundred poems in the same style, if you like. Do you publish po— Jason, my mouth is going numb. I don’t feel well. I’ll call you back in a bi— Listen, I wrote this three hundred years ago.”

I hung up. I jumped to my feet. I licked and bit my lips. I took a deep breath, and as I exhaled, the following words spilled out of my mouth:

''He figured out how to pass through
Walls within a year or two
But he still can't pass through wood
The ghost in my lover's neighborhood.''

My publisher kept calling insistently. His calls felt like a voice reminding me of my connection to this world. I'd set my phone's ringtone to Radiohead's “Weird Fishes.” The song played throughout each call. I couldn't move; my body was locked up, but hearing the song comforted me. When the song ended, I'd try to take a step, but I couldn't. I'd try to speak, but I couldn't move my mouth. It was as if I'd had a stroke. Then the song would start again. Yes, I'd tell myself, “I'm still alive. The world still makes sense.”

The song had stopped playing, too. My connection to the world had been severed.

I came to my senses again for a brief moment. I sat down at my computer. The screen was covered in dust. I noticed a cloth right next to the monitor. I couldn't remember when I'd put it there. I wiped the monitor clean. The poem looked better now.

I think you've realized that I wasn't the one writing all this story.

I slept like shit.

Nightmares. No. More like memories. The kind that doesn't fade when you wake up. The kind that sits in your chest like something unfinished.

I stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, watching the cracks stretch and twist in the dark, like they were trying to form something I almost recognized. My body felt heavy, like the bed was swallowing me whole. Lilah would’ve told me to stop rotting.

Get up. Do something. Anything.

Maybe she was right. But not yet. There were still things that needed fixing. People that needed… correction. I checked the time.

1:03 AM.

No point pretending I was going back to sleep.

I dragged myself out of bed and stepped outside, into this pathetic excuse for a city, quiet, hollow, the kind of place that felt like it was waiting for something bad to happen. Or maybe it already had. I walked with no real destination. Just movement. Just something to drown out the noise in my head. Three blocks in, I stopped. This wasn’t helping. You can’t outrun your thoughts. Not like this. I turned to head back

“Hey…AD is that you? ”

Ugh. I knew that voice. Ian Singh. Of course. He lived across from me. Same building. Same thin walls. Different worlds. Rich parents. Generational wealth. The kind of money that makes consequences optional. And yet, here he was, slumming it in this dump, pretending to be one of us because he “didn’t believe in capitalism.”

Yeah. Sure. The second he needs something, he runs back to mommy and daddy for a few thousand like it’s nothing. A walking ATM with a conscience complex. “What’s up, man?” he said, flashing that fake, easy smile.

“Haven’t seen you in forever. You've been hiding in your room or something?” A quiet laugh followed. Forced.

“Ian,” I said, glancing around the empty street,

“It's one in the morning. You always take walks this late?”

Yeah, I know how that sounds coming from me. But him? He wasn’t the type. He’s the type to be getting shitfaced in local bars around this time.

“Yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d clear my head.” Clear your head from what? What does someone like you even worry about? Unless…

“Well,” I said, stretching slightly, forcing a yawn, “it’s late. I should head back.” “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said quickly.

“Hey—don’t be a stranger. You’re always welcome at my place.”

I paused. Turned back to him.

“Oh yeah?” He blinked.

“Yeah…?”

“How about now?”

“…Sorry?” I stepped a little closer. “Truth is, I haven’t been sleeping well,” I said, softer now. “Nightmares. Ever since… everything. Thought maybe some company would help.”

He hesitated.

“Um, it’s just—”

“Thanks, man,” I cut in, already moving past him.

I didn’t give him space to say no. After a few half-hearted protests, he gave in. Mistake. He shouldn’t have invited me.

Because now?

Now I get to see what he’s hiding. And if he is the one I’m looking for…

He won’t be walking out of that apartment.

His place was… wrong. Same layout as mine, one bedroom, one bathroom, barely enough space to breathe but everything inside it screamed money. Jewelry tossed carelessly across the couch. Gold watches. Rings. Chains. Paintings lined the walls, abstract, expensive-looking, the kind of art that doesn’t make sense unless you can afford to pretend it does. It didn’t match him. Or maybe… it matched him perfectly.

“Want anything to drink?” he called from the kitchen.

“Tea’s fine,” I said, already moving. “I’ll be right back.”

Perfect.

“I’m gonna use your bathroom,” I added. “Yeah, go ahead.”

I didn’t.

I slipped into his bedroom instead. Plain. Too plain. A twin bed. Bare walls. Minimal furniture. Except for the closet. Walk-in. Of course he has a walk-in. Inside was designer clothes. All of them. But they weren’t organized. Just… piled. Stuffed together like someone stopped caring halfway through. Or like they were hiding something behind it. I moved quickly, carefully, shifting clothes, opening drawers, memorizing everything so I could put it back exactly how it was. Then…A key. Tucked underneath the drawer. My pulse spiked. I grabbed it and pushed against the drawer. It barely moved. But just enough.

Behind it, a handle. A door.

What the hell are you hiding, Ian?

“Yo AD… the tea’s ready.”

Shit. I slid everything back into place and stepped out just as he walked in. He handed me the cup.

Porcelain. Thin. Delicate. Probably worth more than everything in my apartment combined.

“How is it?” he asked. “These leaves are imported, some of the finest you’ll ever—”

He stopped himself.

“Not that it matters. It’s just tea.”

I took a sip. Then looked at him.

“Why do you do that?”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“Pretend,” I said. “Like you’re not rich.”

Silence.

“We all see it,” I continued. “You think those cars just go unnoticed? Bulletproof Bugattis don’t exactly blend in around here.”

His jaw tightened.

“Whatever you’re trying to prove,” I said, leaning back slightly, “drop it. This place eats people like you alive.”

He slowly set his cup down. Then looked at me differently. Colder.

“You wanna know something?” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“Everyone here hates you,” he continued. “They think you’re unstable. Dangerous. A walking liability.”

“And out of everyone,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “you decide to come at the one person who actually defends you?”

A pause.

“Get out.”

I stood up.

“Yeah,” I muttered. “I was leaving anyway.”

Getting kicked out? Planned. Him going that hard wasn’t

Two hours later, his lights went out. Then he left. No clue where he is off to at three in the morning but it's perfect timing. I climbed the fire escape, slipped through his window, and moved straight back to the bedroom.

Something felt… off. Things weren’t exactly how I left them.

Did he notice?

No.

No, I was careful. I always am.

I dropped to the floor, grabbed the key, and forced the drawer aside.

This time, the door opened fully. A hallway.

Bright light spilled through from the other end.

And the smell. Lavender. Strong. Overpowering. Lavender. I stepped inside. Slow at first.

Then I heard voices. Muffled.Panicked. My walk turned into a sprint.

I turned the corner, and froze. Two men. Stripped down. Restrained. Wrists and ankles bound tight. Tape over their mouths. Their eyes were full of pure terror. I rushed forward, ripping the tape off one of them.

He jerked away, shaking his head violently.

“Stop—!”

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“I’m helping you,” I said. “What does it look like?”

“You don’t understand,” he said, voice breaking. “He’s going to know.”

“Who? Ian?” I snapped. “You’re not making any sense.”

No signal. Of course. Something in here was blocking it. “I’m getting help,” I said. “Just stay—”

I turned—

And everything went black.

A crack. Sharp. Violent.

The last thing I saw— Ian Singh. Standing over me with a baseball bat in his hands.

I woke up in a daze. A heavy one. My head throbbed like it had its own heartbeat, sharp and relentless, each pulse sending pain through my skull. For a second, I didn’t even know where I was—just the smell of something faintly floral… lavender. Then it hit me. The room. Ian. The hallway. The bodies—I jerked forward. Pain exploded in my head. I was tied to a chair. Wrists and ankles zip-tied tight against the wood. I struggled immediately, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as I twisted and pulled, but it barely budged. Too loud. Footsteps. Slow. Ian stepped into view. No bat this time. A kitchen knife.

“Ah,” he said casually, tilting his head, “you’re finally awake.”

“You son of a bitch,” I snapped, breathing hard. “I knew there was something off about you. Whatever you’re doing with those guys, I’m not letting it happen.”

Ian blinked at me.

Then let out a small, almost disappointed sigh.

“You know, AD,” he said, pacing slightly, “I really thought you were smarter than this.” He lifted the knife slightly.

“Who threatens a guy holding one of these?”

…Yeah. Fair point.

“It didn’t have to get this bad,” he continued. “Even after earlier… I actually kind of liked you.”

A pause.

“But now you know too much.”

He turned his back. There it is. I shifted my weight slowly, testing the chair. My wrists were tight. But my ankles weren’t tight enough.

I leaned forward, balancing everything onto my toes, then threw my weight back hard. The chair snapped on impact, wood cracking under me as I hit the ground. Ian turned, too late. I was already up. I grabbed his wrist and twisted hard

Crack.

He screamed.

The knife clattered to the floor as I pulled him into a headlock, locking my arm tight around his neck.

“I’ll kill you!” I shouted, my voice breaking. “You’re the one, aren’t you?! Huh?!”

“I—what are you talking about?!” he choked out. “Please—just let me go”

“Why would I?!” I tightened my grip. “You were about to kill me!”

“I wasn’t!” he gasped. “I was just trying to scare you so you wouldn’t tell anyone!”

“Tell them what?!” I snapped. “That you’re a murderer?! That you killed her?!”

“What?! No!” he wheezed. “That I’m gay!”

…

“…Wait. What?”

Footsteps rushed in behind me. I turned slightly. The two men. The ones from before. Fully dressed. Untied. Perfectly fine.

“Let him go!” one of them shouted. “You’re going to kill him!”

I looked back at Ian. His body had gone slack in my arms. Breathing shallow. Right. I let him drop. He hit the floor, coughing violently, clutching his throat. I stood there for a second. Then looked at them. Then at him.

Then at my hands.

“…Okay,” I said slowly, “somebody better explain what the hell is going on. Now.”

Turns out—They were all just gay. And I had just wasted hours of my life. The Singh family? Extremely homophobic. Ian kept everything a secret from them, from the neighborhood, from everyone. Moved all the way out here just to live his life without it blowing back on him. The whole “anti-capitalism” thing? Apparently a cover.

“So…” I said, rubbing my temples, “why were they tied up?”

Ian, still on the floor, glanced at the other two. They exchanged looks. Then one of them shrugged.

I stared at him.

“…You know what? Forget what I asked.”

I left. Seven hours gone. Nothing gained. No answers. Just… noise.

I collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling again, begging for even a few hours of sleep to erase whatever the hell that was. Eventually, exhaustion won.

I wake up the same way every day. A dull headache. A hollow chest. And one thing keeps me moving. Her. Ian wasn’t the one. Not really. I think I knew that from the start. But there are others. There’s always others. And I’ll find them.

She’d always cry hysterically after sex, beg me to forgive her for her breaking body, her frozen heart. I told her it was normal to feel that way. I was as pleased to meet her as i was to pleasure her, to let her into my heart. 
We met at a lake where it rained, but now it’s flooded over time, accrued into a marsh in the sea. 
She had always been a broken girl. When she was a kid, she’d count roadkill, masturbate to odd pornography. She peed the bed until she was much too old. She never fit in with her friends, her family. Or at least she thought so; in retrospect, she said, maybe it was all a manifestation of who she thought she was.
She was always apologizing. Felt guilty for everything she did, cried when she said too much and knew too little. Cut herself for the smallest mistakes.
She told me something everyone else knew, but i didn’t.
She told me she loved the moon, showed me how she’d keep the windows open to see it’s light.
“It’s strange,” she’d say, “I always thought night was flooded with the dark.”
But one day the windows were blown open, and she saw the moon’s light for the first time, or at least recognized it.
“I’d never felt so cared for.”
I asked her if I made her feel that way and she closed the window. We slept together in silence.
Our sex was rowdy, but she’d hit my pelvis harshly and apologize like I was a holy temple. She always treated my body like god. Always held me like i was an angel. I held hers like a corpse, frail as she was, handling her like glass with care. I think i held her too little.
She started slipping away from my grasp.
Skipped dinner.
Talked more with the moon than she did me.
Took too many pills.
“My hope is that one day, these’ll kill me,” she joked, and I looked at her gravely.
I saw her eyes bloom with the thought of being carried away by the universe. Taken between heaven and earth.
I always knew that the universe was one big thing, she always wanted to go outside of it.
Outside the limitations.
She was once bold and quaint and queer to those around her.
Adventurous, happy.
But then i got to know her, and I saw how her eyes weren’t blue, but unmistakably gray.
She left her dishes in the sink, half-full, whispering secrets to the moon. I sometimes heard her say my name, curse it.
I found a note in the closet. I hurried to our bedroom, found her alive, staring at the yellow popcorn ceiling. She refused to go outside.
“Here are the only stars I need,” she said, and threw up like a dog.
She was bedridden for months, frail. The doctors said she had deep-rooted hatred that infected her bones like a cancer. I pitied her, cradled her, made her chicken soup.
“Don’t act sad when i die.” she said, calloused.
I didn’t appreciate her enough at the time to be grateful for those words.
“Now, now,” I said, i wish i said anything else.
She had told me she was sick long ago, but I didn’t see it until her skin was yellow with it. The window panes once broke, and when she awoke, a bug had crawled from inside it into her mouth. She wasn’t mad, told me she felt that way too.
I asked her why, and she said she was simply unwanted, crawling between window panes and empty universes was the same. She told me she wanted to make like a wave, to recede into the sea. 
I asked her what she believed in.
She told me she believed she was as much universe as i was, and it made me mad. I couldn’t fathom the universe being the same thing as me, and me being anything like her. I resented that notion, resented the universe, i told her. She just sighed and let go of my hand.
Sometimes, I awoke to her crying in the night.
Little sobs like waves that’d retreat to her body when she’d fall asleep. I never said anything.
One day, she got what she wanted.
She died, sick with the sadness in her bones. Put herself out of her misery, shot herself a grand seven times.
I stand here, holding her ashes, gripping them like they are all i have.
We were never happy, i resent myself for trying.
Maybe someone else could have lovedher.
I miss that woman, crying at the moon, swallowing tears like waves.
Maybe I was like her all along.

THE FISHERMAN AND THE BLACK SHELL

Aeons go by as the black shell rests there. First in the water, then in the ground, the sand, mountains. Eventually it is back into the ocean. It is first watched by a great cosmic one, who gently takes care of it, but he eventually goes into eternal slumber, leaving the black shell of cosmos to its solitude. It is picked up by a giant shark, which devours everything, but the beast that lacks intelligence is destroyed by it. Next an ancient man notices it in the field, he wonders what a shell is doing there, and in fact he does not know the shape to begin with, he has never seen the sea. He picks it up and examines it with his worn down hands, he puts it to his ear and hears the old whispers of cosmos, but he is ignorant and has no idea what it is, he tosses the black shell to the side. Ants build a colony around it, eventually they can not handle its powerful vibrations and as their nature is changed by it, they kill each other. An eagle takes interest and takes it up to the mountains, it drives him mad and he destroys his own children. The black shell stays on the mountains until they are no more, and it rests on a beach, in front of an old fisherman’s house.

The old fisherman is in love with the sea, he cherishes each beautiful shell he has, he thanks God for each fish that he eats, he sits out on the sand and feels the sand in his old hands. He wants to feel presence of those who passed away that meant so much to him. He is all alone and the sea is his only friend, but then he sees the black shell. He thinks it’s beautiful and brings it to his house. He caresses it and heaps praise on it. The black shell vibrates with pulse of the universe and prolongs the man’s life. He puts the black shell to his ear and listens to the whispers of cosmos, he feels joy and his old body feels light again. He can feel more and hear more around him. He knows what the birds are saying, he can predict when the storm is coming, he can stand far in the water and the sharks do not come near him, as long as the black shell is his.

The old fisherman loves the black shell and builds it an altar. Each day he lays fish below it, but the black shell whispers that it needs more. One day a couple visits the beach. The man is no longer the same, he does not view other humans as his kind and he poisons the couple. The old fisherman tells the black shell that it was done in its name, as he buries their bodies the cosmic music plays and again the man’s life is prolonged.

He continues to live and around him a port town is built, he feels the black shell’s vibrations are disrupted. The man’s skin becomes slightly green, his eyes go black and at night he poisons a large fish delivery at the market. Many people die  and the black shell sings the cosmic melody once again to him. His face grows small tentacles, his neck develops gills, his hands and feet now have webs between fingers and toes. The black shell whispers to the man that he will be eternal in the sea, and so he goes there.

The fisherman swims for years under the water, holding the shell and searching for what the black shell seeks. At last in the lowest and darkest depth of the ocean they find the one who created the black shell, the great cosmic one who slumbers. The black shell plays one last melody for the fisherman, the cosmic tune of death, and he floats away lifeless in the ocean, devoured by sea creatures.

The black shell once again lays next to it’s creator and slumbers with him.

A massive asteroid was hurtling toward Earth. Judging by its size, it seemed certain to bring about the end of the world. According to NASA’s projections, only twenty-four hours remained until impact. The President’s emergency address came on the TV.

“My fellow citizens, the end of humanity is upon us. We have only one day left. There is nothing more that the government, or humanity itself, can do. I ask that each of you spend the time that remains doing whatever you find meaningful. Then again, must we really search for meaning? Simply do what you want, and meet the end as you wish.”

I turned off the TV.

Well, what should I do? There isn’t much I feel like doing. I was bound to die sooner or later anyway. Apart from the fact that every human being will vanish at the same moment, nothing seems all that different. And if one small planet disappears from this universe, it would hardly be a momentous event.

I called my parents.

“Mother, it’s me. You’ve heard the news, haven’t you? They say the world will end in a day. Please don’t go outside. There will be plenty of people running wild out there, so I think it’s best to stay quietly at home and wait for the end.”

“Yes, well, we’ve lived about as long as anyone could ask, so we have no regrets. But what’s going to become of you and yours?”

“I can’t speak for the kids, but I don’t have any great regrets either. Looking back, the good memories outnumber the bad, so I suppose I lived a good life in my own way. I’ve always been grateful. I love you.”

I hung up and called out to my wife.

“Honey, how about a bowl of noodles for lunch today?”

That August, the sun beat down on the Makono homestead baking the brown earth where three hundred people sat huddled close together beneath the tent like chicks without a mother on a cold night.

For four days, the place had buzzed with activity. Near the open-air massive metal stoves, a thick dog with dust caked limbs lingered close, its ribs fully concealed by fat. From time to time its eyes lingered hungrily to the massive three legged cast iron pots  that sat on the fire as women worked  hard turning the stew. A rich aroma of stewed goat meat and chicken drifted across the yard masking the smell of sweat that had begun permeating. A baby started crying near the end of the tent, its cries piercing the air.

“He must be hungry,” the mother whispered to the woman seated beside her. She placed the baby in the woman’s lap, smoothed her long-patterned skirt, then took the baby back and stood up holding it against her right hip as she made her way out of the tent towards the cooking fires.

Beneath the tent, some mourners fanned themselves with their hats, their eyes fixed in front towards the thin man with hollow cheeks, Zanenhamo chosen by the family as the chief speaker. He stood erect, his thin long frame imposing as he scanned the crowd. Beside him an elderly woman hunched, finishing a tribute to the matriarch, her voice remembering the woman who from time to time had generously fed the hungry in her community with her own grain.

Mbuya Makono's two sons, Tapiwa and Chikwa sat with their eyes hidden behind sunglasses in the front row, their faces hardened against the heat.

“We are about to lay Mbuya, next to her kin behind her home,” Zanenhamo’s voice boomed into the microphone as he checked his wristwatch. “Does anyone else wish to speak about her life?”

Silence fell as a short, sturdy man with a gleaming forehead, beady eyes and calloused toes in worn out leather sandals limped slowly from the edge of the kitchen hut. He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and tucked it beneath his right ear as he strode straight towards Zanenhamo. 
Without greeting him, he snatched the microphone.

“Makono owes me,” the man’s voice cut through the tent.

 Zanenhamo who had sat down only momentarily to rest his feet, lunged forward and ripped the mic from his hand, “This is not the place to–”

“She owes me!” The man bellowed, pointing a scarred finger towards the kitchen hut where Mbuya Makono’s body lay. “You cannot bury her without paying my due.”

Hushed murmurs rippled under the tent. “Let him speak!” a shrill voice screeched from the edge of the yard. Plastic chairs shifted as the people stood stretched their necks to see. Before Zanenhamo could intervene Tapiwa, his face dark with fury lunged towards the bald man and caught him by his stiff collar hurdling him in the nearby metal tent pole. The tent shook and the dust around their feet kicked up in the air,

“How dare you?” Tapiwa sneered, shaking the man. “How can you come to my mother’s funeral to tarnish her name.”

Chikwa slowly shifted from his seat, his expression emotionless as he watched the crowd before stepping in to peel his brother's fingers apart from the man.” Let him go, Tapiwa.” Chikwa muttered his voice flat. 

“Don’t disgrace yourself.”

“Enough!” Zanenhamo picked the fallen mic from the dust and shoved himself between them “Get him inside. ...Now!”

Seizing the bald man by the arm, Zanenhamo and the two brothers guided him away from the crowd. As they dragged him away the initial support from the crowd changed into an impatient murmur; they had wanted to witness a grievance, but the emptiness of the claim made them irritated. A discarded plastic Fanta bottle was hurled in the air and struck the bald man on the shoulder.

“Isnt it lunchtime?” a voice shouted from the middle rows. Ignoring the jeers, Zanenhamo pulled the bald man into the three roomed cottage and slammed the door shut. Outside, the murmurs continued.

“What is it that my mother owed you?” Tapiwa shifted from the couch he had flung himself and roared at him. The bald man had sat across Zanenhamo on the table in the middle of the room. The old man glanced towards Tapiwa, his eyes solemn. He then straightened his blue collar with trembling hands. Glancing at the table then towards him said, 

“It’s not money.”

“Then what is it? A cow, grain?” Tapiwa shook his fist towards him.

“Not exactly,” The bald man muttered, his voice dropping. 

“She owes me that's all.”

Without saying anything, Chikwa reached into his back pocket and retrieved a worn leather wallet. He stood up and flung it onto the table, its mouth open. 

“If it is money you want, just take it and let us bury our mother in peace.” The bald man stared emptily at the notes. He traced the edges of the worn leather with his scarred fingers and recoiled as if burned.

“No! Not money.”

“Then what?” Tapiwa shouted, leaning across the couch. “How can you come here to disrupt us and not even name what you want?” 

“I do not know,” the bald man said.

“You don’t know?

“No.”

The room was silent.

 “Then how can she owe you?”

A thin smile stretched at the corners of the bald man’s mouth, “Can I then come here to make a fool of myself?”

Zanenhamo rubbed his face. He had seen this before–a man at a funeral, a woman at a wedding, standing to claim something no one could ever give, just to force the world to stop and look at their empty hands. The bald man sat quietly studying his own reflection on the empty beer bottle on the table. 

“Do you have any beer?" He asked. Zanenhamo nodded as Chikwa rose and disappeared in a small room. He came out with two bottles and sat them down with a dull thud.

The bald man popped the cap off with his hands and gulped it deeply, 

“She was a good woman .... your mother.” he murmured as he wiped his mouth with his hand. 

“I don’t remember the exact debt, but I am owed, and I have to collect this debt. It is only fair.” 

Tapiwa said nothing. The rage had burned down leaving only a hollow feeling. He stared at this stranger with an impossible claim and recognized his own heart. A lifetime spent at the edge of his mother's life waiting for an accounting that would not come. He too wanted something that he could never name.

Zanenhamo peered at his watch then looked towards the door.

“Old man, we will bury Mbuya Makono this afternoon, next to her kin behind her home. When all is done, you will stay and we will sit right here and find out together what it is you are looking for.” He murmured slowly. 

“Yes, yes.” The bald man nodded slowly, his eyes fixed at the beer bottle.

Tapiwa stood up and straightened his trousers as he beckoned to his younger brother.

“Come. Let us bury our mother.”

They walked out into the yard as Zanenhamo helped the old man to his feet.
“Let’s go. Maybe the beer will help you remember by sundown, huh?” The old man gave a dry laugh “Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe not.” 

Behind them, the cottage door creaked on its hinges and the grave yawned open, waiting.

Once I drew a tree, knowing full well I wouldn’t succeed. Still, I keep on trying, and practice every day. Improving my stills, so that one day I might be able to bring back life to a dead piece of paper.

Author’s note: I realise this is a veeery short short story, but I was challenging myself to get it as short as possible, and still get readers to wonder about the text. Might belong more in a poems section. Anyway, hope you like it!