Thirteen

It was Mo’s turn next. He wore a hat but quickly whipped it off under the unrelenting glare of the prosecutor’s eye as he entered the witness box. His head was shorn. Where was the lovely weave of his hair as it floated on the green water that Sunday. I wanted him with his hair returned. From where I was sitting I had a glimpse of his firm chest and the little undulations of skin above his hips. He appeared very nervous and fiddled with his hat but in a different way that Shabel held his cap as he bent to look at me. Mo did not look. The first question was how long he had known me. Since the time when I walked from my office to the fish dock, he replied. Then the judge asked him what the relations between us were. He cleared his throat and whispered, ‘intimate’ Answering another question, he nodded when it was put to him that this was against the laws of the land. The prosecutor who had been studying a document in his hand, asked him rather sharply, when our ‘liaison ‘had begun. Mo gave the date. The prosecutor then observed in a rather casual air, that this would be around the time of the Dada’s funeral. After letting this sink in he remarked in a slightly ironic tone, that given the laws of the land and as this was a ‘’delicate’ topic he could sympathise with this young man’s feelings but, here, his voice grew deeper in his chest, his duty obliged him to waive considerations of delicacy. ‘We are a stern but fair nation’ he said