My Friend in the Loose Shirt
I saw him for the first time many years ago. Short of stature, a loose shirt wet in patches from the rain, torn sandals on his feet. He stammered something and placed an envelope on my table. I took out the letter, saw the bright red sun emblazoned on top and put it back. What was there to read? The rebels have come to visit. They want a share of my money. “No,” I told him. “I can’t. And I won’t.” My voice quivered as I added: “You can shoot me if you like.” For an hour I spoke. No, ranted. I shouting, he listening with his head bowed. At the end of it, he raised his head. Our eyes met. They were like unpolished marbles, cold and lifeless. Eyes that has seen something of the world and didn’t like what it saw…
