Sunday was a day for worship and family, and the local folk were dressed in their Sunday best. The locals walked in family units along barren, unpaved roads to praise the western lord. It was burning season, and the landowners were busy spraying diesel across the viral, rambling bush. Jurassic-looking horn-billed birds seemed to float, almost motionless, with outstretched wings, atop the billowing smoke, hungry for an easy lunch of fleeing snakes and old chameleons too feeble or senile to change their body colour from an igneous-brown. In the distance, a forested hill smoldered as the poor folk harvested a balding forest reserve for cooking charcoal.

Mfiti thought of coffee and biscuits as he scanned his lot of white Toyota 4x4s and fought off his usual midday torpor. A pantless three-year old boy in a torn red t-shirt loitered nearby on the road. The boy was lost in an empty daze as he stared out over his distended pot belly. Mfiti looked across the slowly decaying pavement and admired its hoary, sky gray colour that seemed to blend effortlessly with the walls of the windowless church guarding the end of his lot. He sighed as he padded his sweaty forehead with an oily rag. 

Mfiti then weighed the smokey smells of the distant crackling brushfires with the glory of the spiritual hymns wafting out from the church door. Toyotas were Mfiti’s moneymaker and Sunday was the day when teacher azungu from the international school came by with mechanical problems. If he was lucky, summer was also a good season to make a sale. He walked out to the dirt road to listen to the melodies of worship, optimistically thinking about the money he would make on sales this month. 

Down the road, he saw the American teacher, Mr. Seller, jogging toward him, outfitted with a camel pack, neon Nike yellow running shoes, and an obsidian-black digital watch that flashed in the sun. Mfiti waved erratically with his oily rag and finger whistled to get Seller’s attention. Seller, panting in the heat, waved back and lumbered up to the lot’s entrance, his pouch-belly jiggling slightly through his tight, dry-fit sports shirt.

“Ahh, Mr. Seller,” Mfiti exclaimed with a wide-mouthed grin, “you are running too hard for today. This sun is too hot for you.” 

Seller took our his earbuds and shuffled to a standstill in the earthen road. He returned Mfiti’s eager grin. “This is the best way to sweat out all that South African wine and cheese I can’t stop eating, Mfiti!” he said as he gasped at the dirty air for more oxygen.

Mfiti let out an additional laugh eager for business. “Wine and cheese is one thing you Americans know best, Mr. Seller. You should come to my office today to have a wine.” 

“Oh thank you, Mfiti, but I cannot.” The pantless boy approached the men. He appeared emotionless and held out his hand to Seller as if the only energy he could afford to spend was that required to lift his arm up, outstretched, and to prop his kwashiorkored gut upright with a bipedal plant in the prickly hot road rocks. The thumb of the other hand lay in the boys mouth, an apparent substitute for food. 

Mfiti shooed the child away. “Vai porra, vai embora d’aqui. Este cara aqui nao tem nada pra te dar, nada pra comer.” Mfiti turned back to Seller and said, “You must come for wine, I insist! Besides, it has been too many months that you have not brought your truck here for me to look at.”

“Yes, I know.” Seller said as he looked at the miserable boy below. His mind was torn between empathy and disgust. The boy tugged on Seller’s shorts, and took his thumb from his mouth to gesture for food or money or anything. A ray of sunlight flashed across a maroon drop of blood that hung precariously to the boy’s thumb, and the drop sparkled like a ruby jewel through the golden dust in the air. Seller tasted iron in his mouth. 

“Vai porra!” Mfiti barked again at the boy, and kicked up a plume of grimy earth from the road as if he was kicking a football at the child. 

“Ah Mfiti, he just needs some food. Don’t hurt him.” 

“These ones are bad people, Mr. Seller.”

“What?! How do you know.” 

“They come from my country. Their father, he understands my Portuguese.” Mfiti pointed down the road behind him. “They hunt for food down there behind the market. They are terrorists, Seller.” 

“Terrorists?” Seller looked at Mfiti incredulously. “This poor little boy? I think your terrorists are actually these witch doctors I keep hearing about,” Seller continued with an equivocating jocular tone that suggested he half-believed his jest. “I hear they take people in the night, just down the road here, out in the darkness, toward the forest reserve. They are not just taking the trees for charcoal, they also take people’s hearts so they can make spells on people!” 

“No witch doctor,” Mfiti laughed, “that is mzungo bobagem… mumbo jumbo. These are true terrorists, jihadis, connected to the Taliban himself! We Mozambicans, from the south, from Maputo, we are good. We come here to Zambia to do business, like you. We create profit, we make profit, we make Zambia a better place. Me, I sell cars. I buy them used in Japan, I bring them by ship to Maputo, I sell them here in Lusaka; to people like you, Seller, who need a good, dependable truck to travel around Lusaka, to drive in Zambia, to go on safari. I sell to everyone. So many azungu need this kind of car. I sell to a Greek man last month, to your teacher friends at the American school every year, and today, I even sell to a China man. A China man mzungu, can you believe it Seller?” 

“The Chinese keep coming,” Seller said. “That’s impressive. You really do have a global business here. But this little man, he is also from a unique place,” and smiled down at the boy who stared back up with the semi-catatonic gaze of a stray, starving dog.

“Animals,” Mfiti said. “The come from the north of Mozambique. They are jihadis. They want to cut your head off.” 

“He is harmless,” Seller said. “I bet they just came here to escape the conflict. They have no where else to go.” 

“Maybe.” Mfiti said, paused, and looked to coax the subject back to business: “Your truck,” he said with masculine emphasis, “it must need an oil change. I worry about your truck.” 

Seller looked toward the garage deep inside the lot, and then back at the boy. “Yeah, you are right, it is time to bring it in for a check.” 

“If you come tonight, you can meet the China man. He will pick up his new Hilux, I will stay open late. We can drink a wine together. He said he will bring Chinese wine!” 

“OK it’s agreed then. Can I come by at… 6 pm? Will you still be here?” 

“6 pm is great.” 

Seller squared up to the boy and with a friendly smile, arms akimbo, and said, “سلام عليكم.”  

The boy’s dry eyes somehow displayed the emotions his face could not, as if its soul was touching the other souls around via some light ether suspended between them. And the boy spoke, and seemed to surprise even himself: “واليكم سلام.”

…………………………………………………………

Seller’s tires crunched and crackled over the natural gravel at the entrance to Mfiti’s lot. Twilight grey was replacing the African steppe brown that pervaded everything, even the green forest, during the day. Seller turned his lights on as he rolled up to the garage, announcing his visit to Mfiti who sat inside the garage with the Chinese buyer. 

Mfiti looked out of a square, opaque, four-paneled French window, caked with grime and decades old oil, as the headlights from Seller’s truck shimmered through and he heard the popping of gravel under the tires. The windowpane in the lower left quadrant was broken through by a rock or hammer some years ago. Mfiti once thought to cut a piece of old glass to replace the panel, but changed his mind when he saw how helpful the hole was. 

Minsheng, Mfiti’s China man, was seated on a couch positioned with its back against the wall. The window lay between the edge of the couch and Mfiti’s computer table. When the Minsheng changed position, barely visible puffs of dust lingered up into the foggy sunlight coming through the window–generations of dead skin, disintegrated African insects, and engine grinds built their city in that couch. 

Minsheng beamed with delight and pulled out a porcelain white liquor bottle with a lipstick red label on it. “Mfiti”, he said, “let us celebrate with the American my new car.” 

Mfiti, crouching to look through the hole in the window, turned to Minsheng and fixated his eyes on the bottle as it was planted onto a rotting, plywood coffee table painted in a 1970s-toned, burnt orange. The base of the bottle appeared to sink into its place on the table. Mfiti smiled and clapped and rubbed his hands together, eager for a strong drink. 

Seller came up to the doorway, paused, and gave the obligatory “Hello?” before cautiously, but decidedly, walking through the open door. 

“Hi Mr. Seller,” Mfiti exclaimed, “come in and sit down. My friend here, Minsheng, has offered us a drink. He is very happy with his new Hilux. Aren’t you, Minsheng?” 

Minsheng stared blankly and motionless, much like the pantless boy but with the energy to maintain a beaming smile as he searched for the right English words to greet the American. After an awkward moment, Minsheng said, “I am 民声, please… sit down with us and drink.” Minsheng motioned to the couch and patted the cushion in a slight sweeping movement in effort to clean a spot for the American. Seller agreed, returned a meek smile of approval, and awkwardly sat down next to Minsheng. “I have never with a American together share a chair before,” Minsheng awkwardly noted with an equally strained smile, looking back and forth at Mfiti and Seller. 

“Such an international garage I have here,” Mfiti proudly exclaimed. “I have one from China, one from the US, and me, from Mozambique. You know, just the other day, I had one from Pakistan come here. He wanted to buy a Prado but I did not have the one he was looking for.”

Minsheng twisted off the red cap of the porcelain bottle. “Do we have cup?” he asked. Mfiti shuffled through some shelf clutter, snatching a stack of small paper coffee cups and holding them forward. 

Seller looked out the window at the darkening twilight. “I love Lusaka.” 

“What does this mean?” Minsheng asked as he poured a half cup of Chinese liquor into three cups on the rotting table. “Lusaka is not a beautiful city. It is brown and dirty… Cairo is the same. But in Cairo, you have history and good universities.” 

“You have been in Cairo?” Mfiti asked. 

“Yes. We Chinese do business in Cairo for many many year.” 

“I like Lusaka for the starry nights,” Seller added. “It is the only capital city I have been to where you can still make out so many stars. Zambia is such a rural country. There is so little manmade light, so few cars and streetlights.” 

“Sometimes the darkest places allow the most light,” Mfiti quipped. 

 “Yes,” Minsheng said, looking at the liquor pensively. “And the dark place is also the poor place. But this is a good idea.” He turned to the American and aggressively said, “Let’s drink for it!“ The three men picked up their paper cups of liquor. “This is called, 白酒, it is very delicious Chinese wine. Besides, when we drink we say 干杯.” 

“Ganbei?” 

“Yes, it means….” Minsheng looked for the words with an eye-roll, “... drink it all!” The men held their cups up into the hazy, cluttered air and exclaimed, “ganbei!,” and each drank their cup empty in a single gulp. Minsheng then quickly refilled the cups. For thirty minutes the men drank and Minsheng complimented Mfiti, his new truck, the American, and finally, even Lusaka. The men and their merriment sunk into the cavernous couch cushions, plush and spongey with years of use hosting sweaty and dirty mechanics and customers. 

After some time, Seller seemed to feel that he had run out of things to say. Looking for refuge outside, he looked over his shoulder and said, “I want to go and look at the sky.” He got up and curved around the corner and out the door into the darkness. A wedge of light from the garage office illuminated an oblique triangle into the gravel outside. Seller looked up to the stars as Minsheng followed him out. Mfiti looked out through the hole in his window. 

“Sometimes the darkness does show the light the best.” Seller said, sensing that Minsheng was behind him in the doorway. “It can be such a beautiful place, if the people take care of it.” 

“It is dangerous country,” Minsheng replied. “The dark is also not good.” 

“Not good?” 

“For example, you cannot see the people walking next to the road. They are so black. Also, there are no lights on the road. When I drive, I always afraid I will hit them. I must drive slow.” 

Seller turned around, digesting the comment deep in his gut and squinting through the blackening air into the wedge of yellow glow from the doorway. He felt the urge to shout at Minsheng. He wanted to yell, ‘How dare he make such a blatantly racist remark in front of Mfiti! China would never take the helm as world leader if its people were going to be so simpleminded.’ Minsheng looked at him waiting to be acknowledged, but all Seller could say was, “That’s racist.” 

“Racist?” Misheng asked, more worried that he understood the literal meaning of the word–which he knew was negative and insulting–rather than the emotions and intent Seller attached to the reply. Perplexed, Minsheng stood with a dumbfounded gawk. He looked over and passed Seller’s shoulder; at the gate, he could see the malnourished eyes of the pantless boy gazing through to them with disinterested interest. 

“Yes,” Seller said, “... racist.” 

“No,” Minsheng retorted, more pointedly now. His pride was starting to percolate through the eagerly polite face he had worn for diplomacy’s sake. A direct insult, from his first American no less, meant that airs and displays of courtesy were now in jeopardy. 

Mfiti, meanwhile, overheard all of this while inside. When Seller exited, and then Minsheng, Mfiti busied himself by hiding spare refuse and slapping the arm of the elderly sofa with his oil rag, as if the dust clouds that blossomed up after each smack were like the spray from a bottle of furniture freshener. Mfiti knew it was futile to make the garage look more welcoming, but it wasn’t everyday he welcomed such interesting personalities for a drink. And now they needed his interruption. Mfiti swooped the bottle of baijiu from the rickety, sunken table, and walked outside into the wedge of light with Minsheng. 

“More Chinese wine, my friends?” Mfiti suggested, holding out the bottle. “Come, come, this is a night to celebrate. So many people, so many countries. We must celebrate.” Mfiti rushed back in to grab the paper cups and laid the drinking paraphernalia out on a wooden bench that rested against the garage office’s exterior wall. The wedge of light shone brightly enough to illuminate the sides of the cups and bottle and cast long shadows from the objects across the length of the bench. 

“Yes,” Seller said and stepped into the light toward the bench, “you are right. We must all try very hard to understand each other and our different perspectives. It is always best to forgive and empathise. Tolerance is key.” 

Minsheng nodded his head with a reluctant smile, and said, “Let’s agree.” The three men moved to pick up the paper cups, Seller proudly announced a ganbei and the three each threw back another full cup of the transparent liquor. Misheng let out a strange sigh, a growling breathe with a subtle, exasperated burp, emphatically placing his cup back on the bench. “Please, more,” he gestured to Mfiti. 

Mfiti obliged. 

“You know… ” Minsheng started, the English words now coming more freely to him after close to an hour of practice and many baijius, “All Africa is not poor and crime. African people have everything, that is why they are poor. They have many, many thing, the fish, the animal, the tree, the metal, the rock. They never work hard, these thing, it is all free to them. The African culture, it is lazy because they do not need to work many…. “

Seller looked on incredulously while Mfiti did so curiously. Mfiti looked to his right and now caught the hungry gaze of the pantless boy. His intuition told him the boy’s eyes were fixated on the China man. 

“.... In Egypt this was different. Egypt has nothing. It is Africa, but it is different from Africa here. All desert and sand, in Egypt. But they have the great river that go to the sea. So people, they all together go to the river. The river is small place, the desert is big place. When the people go to the river, they have to work many time. People invent, people protect the land, people fight about the land and the river. The competition, the people win, the people lose, the people create a big… civilisation… with… those big buildings, what are they?” 

“The pyramids?” Seller asked. 

“Yes… and writing, and mathematics. Africa does not have these things. There was no need. Africa has everything.”

“Materialismo histórico,” Mfiti said. "In Mozambique we studied this at the university during the revolution."

"What's that?" asked Seller.  

“Karl Marx. His science. That history and culture happens because of… the material conditions in the place of the people.” 

“Correct!” Minsheng exclaimed, immediately pouring another round of baijiu into the three paper cups on the bench. “In Chinese can say, 历史唯物主义。“

“Historical materialism?” Mfiti asked Minsheng.” 

“Yes, I think that is probably the same.” 

Seller bit his lower lip and looked down at the liquor bottle. A sudden chill of insecurity jumped up his spine. He began to feign spacing out. He imagined chiptune explosion sounds leaping from the bottle’s arcade-like red lettering, as he compared the porcelain shine with the white glow of the full moon waking up on the horizon. 

“What do you think, American?” Minsheng asked. 

Seller continued to look at the moon. He wasn’t thinking to avoid and distract, but his mind and mouth made the decision for him. “The light shines through most brightly in the darkest places.” 

Minsheng understood, but could not think of a response in English for Seller’s compliment to the moon. He sipped his bajiu gently now, like he was testing it for temperature or purity. His eyebrows scrunched down and he thought deeply on how to talk to this American. He turned to Seller and said, “You know, in China we have very famous poet, the poet always love about the moon to write. This line, I do not know how to say in English…. maybe, 

I sing, and the moon, it only move, I dance, and the moon move my …..” 

… What is this called?” he asked as he pointed down to his shadow across the wedge of light on the ground. 

“Your shadow?” 

“Yes!,” Minsheng exclaimed. 

I sing, and the moon only move, I dance, and the moon move my shadow” 

“That’s very beautiful,” Seller said, still fixated on the moon. “What does it sound like in Chinese?” 

“我歌月徘徊, 我舞影零亂”

“And what does it mean to you?” Seller asked. 

Minsheng took a gentle step closer and looked at the moon with Seller. “I think… it mean… People can sing very loud and people can dance, very much, with much strong, but the moon, the world, will continue.” 

“I have to try to read more Chinese poetry, I guess,” Seller said. “I always like to read the great writers of other civilisations. I know China has a great poetic tradition.” 

Mfiti sat down on the bench and cleared his nose. He lifted the porcelain bottle and filled his paper cup. “Hey gentlemen, bring me your cups. Let’s drink one more.” He waved to them both and they turned to the bench. “I think I understand your poem,” he said to Minsheng. “Historical materialism… We Africans, we can sing very loud, and we can dance very crazy, but the world will not listen and the world will change us however the world wants. We have no influence. Everything is… determinismo.” 

“Yes,” Minsheng stated, with a gracious smile and slight bow of his head that morphed into hunching over the bench as he picked up his cup. “That correct.” His right knee gave in a little–the alcohol having loosened his taut joint muscles–and he readjusted with a sip from his cup. “But the poem is beautiful because can read it in different way. Chinese language is famous to do it.” 

“How so?” Mfiti asked. 

“徘徊. It mean is different thing. Perhaps it mean that the moon it will always move every… 28… day. I sing, and nothing change. The moon always move. But, perhaps it mean that when I sing, I CAN push the moon, this thing that we cannot move or change. My sing can push it!” 

Mfiti nodded his head in affirmation. “The person is shaped by the material conditions, but the strong person can also shape the material conditions. They are a part of the material conditions that they shape.” He looked at Seller and winked and said, “you know it is easier to speak in this intellectual language in English, because the intellectual language in Portuguese and English, it is almost all the same words, just different accent.” 

Minsheng smiled again, winked his right eye, and downed his cup with an uncouthly phlegmy sigh. 

Mfiti then eagerly added, “Things are predetermined, yes, but we Africans, we also need to wake up and take charge. We can be a part of pre-determining other people’s lives too.” 

“I agree,” Seller said, anxious to contribute to the progress of the debate. “You need to start by saving your natural resources. Get people to stop cutting down the forest reserve right in your backyard. Educate people on the importance of conserving nature and protecting resources.” 

Mfiti smirked solemnly. By the gate a gaunt, lanky female figure in dark rags, hunched over as if she were dragging an immense invisible weight over her shoulders, shuffled up to the boy who had continued to stand and stare at the three men by the garage. She patted the boy on the head and took him by his hand. The two ghostly figures sauntered off into the night, zestless zombies of the dark. 

The three men simultaneously noticed the sudden, yet slow, appearance of the woman. The three watched with curious concern until the two figures disappeared. Minsheng squatted down into a standing fetal pose, Seller shivered, and Mfiti itched with subdued rage as the baijiu coursing through him washed away his hold onto his obsequiously polite demeanour. 

An acerbic comment impulsively escaped from Mfiti’s control, “It is hypocritical, Seller…” and Seller looked at Mfiti with the curious gaze a teacher might give a student when something new or unexpected was offered up in class. Seller’s look suggested, without saying , ‘please continue to explain yourself.’ This look accelerated Mfiti’s baijiu fuelled disappointment in Seller. 

“It is hypocritical to judge poor people for wanting charcoal to cook their food and warm their homes.” A surge of mixed regret and relief swirled in Mfiti’s chest when he said this, but the relief won out. “You... you… are so rich, American, that you have the money to buy beef, and beef, and more beef, and then you wash it down with wine and cheese, lots of wine and lots of cheese, and you make your belly so fat. What is even more bad! You not only have the money to make your belly fat, you then have the time, the free time, American, to run in circles in front of our poor people who starve.”

Seller looked at the ground in sudden shame, averting his eyes from Mfiti. 

“You run in circles with your bright colours and your music,” Mfiti continued, but in a softer tone. “You run in circles to make your big belly small. And then you tell us to not cut the trees! If you want to make your belly small, do not eat beef, do not drink wine, do not eat cheese. Give that woman and boy your beef money, so we do not need to cut the trees!” he exclaimed with a triumphant smile that suggested he was not angry despite letting his guard down and unleashing such sharp thoughts. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Seller capitulated with his hand up and out. “I did not mean to upset you. You are right, we all have work to do to make the world a better place.” 

Minsheng stood up from his squat. “I think you two both drink too much 白酒,” he said with an uncomfortable smirk. “Come, come,” he continued, gesturing with his arms in a hugging pose, “come together and shake hand. We are all friend here.” Minsheng started to feel that it was time to go home, and wanted to help his two new acquaintances to save face. 

“Yes, I’m really sorry to offend,” Seller said. 

Mfiti caught his breathe, which had started to run with his heart. He swallowed them both. “OK,” he said and looked dejectedly at the dirt. “You are right my friend.” He then looked up and gave a rising smile and said, “China maybe will save us all, right my friend?” 

Minsheng brought the two men together to shake hands. The sky was fully dark now and the men could barely see to the distant gate. They all occasionally glanced to see if the boy and his spectral-like mother were there, but they could not tell and they dared not ask each other or comment on it. Minsheng and Seller helped to clean up the paper cups and Minsheng triumphantly offered the almost empty bottle of baijiu to one of Mfiti’s shelves. “I think it look beautiful, here,” he said, winking at Mfiti. “对，很漂亮,“ he whispered to himself. 

As they were all drunk, Mfiti told Seller he would need to look at his truck and change the oil in the morning. Minsheng offered Seller a ride home, which was just a kilometer down the road, but Seller was apprehensive following their hour-long baijiu binge. 

“I think I can just walk,” Seller said. “I have my phone and the light on the phone can be good enough. There is also such a bright moon out tonight.” 

“OK, I will go with you,” Mfiti insisted. “I need a walk.” 

“No really, I’m fine,” Seller replied looking up at the sky. “I have walked the road at night many times.” 

“You never know,” Mfiti persisted, “you may find your witch doctors out there, hungry for a heart! I will go with you. It is better to have company, even if you are mad at me for talking about your wine and cheese,” he said with a wink. “Besides, I was just joking, really. Don’t be worried,” he continued and smiled reassuringly. 

Minsheng climbed into his new truck, started the vehicle, gave a fist-pump-type wave for victory, and creeped the truck out onto the rocky dirt road. 

…………………………………………………………

** **The moonlight shown through the sporadic tree tops as a murky, jade haze, and the two men, both in short sleeves, crossed their arms and rubbed their biceps as an evening chill set in along their walk. They noted that it was a good thing they were drunk, as the booze was sure to keep them warm. The moonlight from the horizon did not reach through the dense, lower bush, and Seller used his phone’s mini flashlight to to light the road beneath each step. 

Wild noises from the Lusakan night reached their ears and Seller quickly aimed his phone’s light into the bush whenever a slight crackle or slithering sound emanated from the side of the road. Seller commented on the lions of Zambia and that he had heard one was tracked through Lusaka, and Mfiti replied that that was nonsense. 

“But I read it in the news, Mfiti,” Seller insisted. “It was a young male lion. They tracked its scat. Do you know what scat is?” 

“Scat? No, I don’t know what this scat is.” 

“It’s the poop. They say the lion left Kafue National Park and somehow knew to travel across to the Lower Zambezi. It was looking for a mate…. That’s what the paper said anyway.” 

Mfiti looked into the dark, ghoulishly green silhouette of overgrown bush. The outlines of confused tall trees seemed to sway over them in a canopy breeze that did not reach low to the stagnant air hovering over the gravel road. Crickets chirped and a shrill animal cry, similar to an infant’s shrieks of distress, drifted to them from over the top of the bush. Mfiti could sense Seller’s drunken anxiety starting to froth up, but he was comfortable. “You do not need to worry about lions, my friend,” Mfiti repeated encouragingly with a hiccup. “We Africans killed all of them centuries ago. They are only now in the parks where you mzungos go to see them.” 

“Yes, I know, but there are no fences around the parks.” 

“The lions do not leave the park. They are afraid of me, Mfiti!” he said with a hiccupy chuckle as he sonorously slapped his hand to his chest. “You need to be more worried about humans, the humans who killed the brave lion. And not your backward witch doctor. The danger is the fearless warriors who want to stand in the sun. Strong men. Maybe the jihadis.” 

As Mfiti said these words and the men crossed a shallow crest in the road, the ember-neon red break lights of a car, far up along the straight dirt road, came into view. A new, manmade sound also softly reached their ears; the persistent ding, ding, ding, ding, that both men instantly knew to be the signal from an open car door. “Is that car stopped?” Seller asked. 

 It took a couple minutes of walking to reach the car. As they approached, it became clear that the vehicle, a pickup truck, was parked still in the middle of the road. The driver’s side door was propped open, and road dust was levitating upwards into the headlights which they could see over the top of the cab. The two men stopped in their slight stupor, immediately behind the truck, peering around it to the front. They could feel the warmth of the running engine through the brisk night air. A deep, bone-crunching noise like that of a dog gnawing and cracking through a thigh bone overtook the high pitched ding, ding, ding, ding. Dizzy and chilled, Seller spotted a leather boot on the ground some 10 meters up into the headlights’ reach, resting on the roadside against the impinging bush. A gurgle and a moan interrupted the crunches and dings. 

The pantless, emaciated boy emerged through the tall grass with his distended belly protruding from under his raggedy t-shirt. The boy’s face was inundated with crimson blood, and splotches of sand and dirt caked into the viscous liquid. Seller gasped but could not scream. Mfiti felt as though his head lost its weight, and he secured a hand to the railing of the the truck bed in a haphazard effort hold himself up. His hand felt the unmistakeable texture of new and unworn polyethylene bed-liner, and he came to the terrifying revelation that this was Minsheng’s new truck. 

The boy moved blithely toward the front of the vehicle, like he was stalking it. With an inhuman burst of energy and strength, the boy leapt up onto the warm, metal hood. He stuck a thumb in his mouth and stared at Seller. The boy giggled with the innocent joy of a child with a new toy. A elongated canine figure, unnaturally almost bull-sized and golden in the yellow, manmade headlights, then snaked around the front of the truck. The lush glow from the trees gave the raised hair on the dog’s back a green glow. Drool in the form of blinding golden light was dripping from its cavernous, toothy, carnivorous mouth, illuminating the vegetation with a verdant flare. 

“Holy Fuck,” Seller managed to force out, his heart tearing through his chest, and goosebumps raising the shirt up on his back. “Holy Fuck,” he repeated and stepped backwards, tripping to his butt over an embedded rock jutting out from beneath the dusty brown roadbed. Seller vomited over his side, as a grizzly, emaciated human shadow rose up behind him. Seller looked up from below to the pantless boy’s mother. 

The sounds of incredibly deep, methodical breathing came out of the woman. Mfiti looked at the woman, then gawked at the hapless Seller on the ground. Mfiti caught sight of Seller’s convulsing belly in the dirt, he closed his eyes tightly in an effort to refocus, but his mind was brought to fantastical images of Seller, decked out in his American running gear and plodding over the bare, rocky ground, with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a fetid chunk of moldy cheese in the other. He opened his eyes again as the rambling overgrowth along the road started to swirl around him and from beneath him in the life-giving soil at his feet. A finger-wide trickle of blood meandered from under the truck and around the rocks in the road beneath him. 

Delirious and almost swooning, Mfiti struggled to look back to the hood of the truck. The boy was there, still standing on the warm, white metal, his shirt fluttering in the breeze as though it was a soft spring dress adorning a little girl of his size. Emotionless again, the boy nonchalantly stared down the bovine canine as the demon dog aggressively pawed the supple dirt, ready to charge at the boy by crashing into the engine block.   

Mfiti felt the brown African earth in the webs between his fingers, and whispered, “Meu Deus,” to himself. It felt like it was growing there. He saw the lush forest sprout from his hands. The mystical earth spun upwards into a nighttime dust devil that spread its life giving force onto Mfiti’s clothes, over the truck, through the boy’s distended belly, and rained down over the all of Africa, enchanting its forests and savannahs. The dirt blew over the oceans and seas, spreading to the refugee boats in the seas, the favelas of Brazil, the ghettos of America, and the missing homeless of China. 

Mfiti’s trance was broken by the distant incessant screams of Seller, echoing through his ears. He burrowed his eyebrows and grimaced at Seller. Seller was so close, but his screams so distant, as though a loud gunshot or explosion had made Mfiti temporarily deaf. 

Mfiti gently bent down to the earth and extracted a football sized rock from the road. “Nos, somos, deus.” Seller’s screaming soon ceased.