Odidi runs.
Tears flood. Terror-rage-love fuse.
The fallen ones are his men.
Guilt. Fury. Sorrow.
'Urgh!' The sound a captain makes when he falters and looses the team. Still Odidi does not go for the pistol strapped to his chest. Odidi runs. Strength in his arms, his legs pistons, he sprints down Haile Selassie Avenue, jumps over prone, cowering citizens, pities them, the bullets aimed at him raining down upon them. He runs through the stench of decay, the perfume of earth hoping for rain, habits and dreams of Nairobi's people: smoke, rot, trade, worry, residues of laughter, and overbrewed Ketepa tea. Odidi runs.