The journey had begun. And now the fear back again, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the great city…the fear of Gertrude’s sickness. Deep down, the fear for his son. Deep down the fear of a man who lives in a world not made for him, whose own world is slipping away, dying, being destroyed beyond any recall.

He told them too of the sickness of the land…how it was a land of old men and women, and mothers and children; how the maize barely grew…how the tribe was broken, and the house broken, and the man broken; how when they went away, many never came back, many never wrote anymore.

I do not say we are free here. I do not say we are as free as men should be. But at least I am free of the chief. At least I am...