Inside the small, smoke-darkened hut, the air hung thick with the scent of charred wood and the faint tang of sweat, layered over by the sour-sweet aroma of fermented milk. A modest fire crackled low in the centre, its orange glow painting restless shadows onto the curved mud walls. Animal hides, stiff and worn, hung from wooden pegs by the entrance. A few stools, their legs uneven from age, circled the hearth on the packed-earth floor. Above, the thatched grass roof was beginning to thin, letting in fine, slanting threads of light, like cracks in an old world trying to hold itself together.

Elijah sat on one of the low stools, his posture slumped, hands clasped loosely between his knees, eyes locked on the slow-burning embers. His mind was as restless as the fire, the guilt pressing deeper into his chest with every crackle. Across from him, Wilson crouched beside the flames, his face half-lost in shadow as he prodded the fire with a stick, the sharp scent of the burning kindling the only sound for a while.

The woven curtain at the entrance rustled gently, and Wilson’s wife, stoic and silent, stepped inside carrying two calabashes filled with thick, sour fermented milk. She handed one to each man without a word. Elijah took his, the coolness of the vessel a sharp contrast to the warmth of the hut and cradled it in his palms but he didn’t drink.

“You brought death to our doorstep, brother,” Wilson said at last, his voice low but stripped of the heat from earlier. Now it held only the cold edge of grim concern. “You think hiding him in our boma will go unnoticed? Chang will know. Men like him always know.”

Elijah lifted his eyes, slow and heavy. “I didn’t know where else to go.” His voice was dull, defeated, as if he’d rehearsed the words a hundred times and still couldn’t make them sound right.

Wilson’s jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on the stick. “You should’ve let him go out into the savannah,” he said flatly. “Let the wild decide his fate. Now it’s not just your problem. You’ve made it ours. The whole village carries it now.”

Elijah’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “He begged, Wilson.” His voice cracked on the word. “I couldn’t do what Chang asked. I can’t kill him.”