A stoic person, Yaya would very much be anywhere else but at the heart of Mafoluku, listening to music he’d grown up listening to, but had never loved.

“Better for you to confess now, so we find an arrangement that can see you do a light reformatory penance for your sins.’’

Snapping suddenly to an upright position, Yaya charged his shell-shocked attacker, who, caught ball-watching, stood helpless in the face of his foe’s barrage. 

The clergyman sounded solemn. His words would certainly cut deep, spoken in a slow, grating baritone that punctuated every consonant and elaborated every vowel.