In a small room with 3 way mirrors at Dulles International Airport, Washington DC, three bulky and unsmiling American immigration officials stood over Solomon Wangwe’s open suitcases. This was after they had pulled him off the queue and scanned his bags and shoes and jacket,
Duma slipped and hit his head on the edge of the stair. He was 18-months old. It’s ironic. His dad, being the overly careful first-time father, had made the decision for the family to move to a bungalow to avoid their son falling off any high floors.
It had been over for months. The credits had been rolling for a while even without viewers. There were those last days when you suspected it was over and they suspected it was over but nobody wanted to look at the hard wrinkled face of the end.