He arraigned him in court before the magistrate when everyone least expected. A fine reportage from Kone was all it took and it brought his brother Kwado to this place, empty of his supposed admirers. If there’s anything Kone has learned being investigative; it was to let the law run its course. And today many of their neighbours hadn’t come in the way they always did to show concern, something went amiss. It was never thought a brother would sell a brother, and so close, a friend. Perhaps, it would be an agree to their objection of the incarceration that was building and so they stayed back to curse some lengthy cajole of what Kone had done. He stood tall to all criticism the more.

   Kone had barely finished narrating this superbly told story, with this clarity that kissed the edge of finesse. As he journeyed on in words, Kwado was lurked inside some self imposed dock he had copied on bended knees. His gaze was slouched, losing all enthusiasm to listen. This way, it would make almost a perfect terrace for rain water if it had had to be tinged to a heavy down pour. With this kind of inner retreat Kwado practiced, Kone felt it was victory inaugurated in a sleek manner. Because this retreat seemed a herald of some shame that guilt followed, but guilt did not always follow shame. Everything had played out as though a drama. That Mother of Children was that magistrate dishing out questions she never waited for their reply, and another would come wavering and searing like a blow. And her living room with sparse furnishing and mahogany etagere planted in a corner would be her honourable court of law without audience.

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   The last time neighbours, these audiences, had come around. They had done so one after the other, to plead on Kwado’s behalf. They were taken on oath and were forced, somehow, to say how it wouldn’t happen again; how Kwado wouldn’t do pick-pocket again. Like Kwado had been expecting it, he agreed immediately, flinging his head in a heavy nod. Mother of Children’s heart went heavy with turbulence on how lightly it was taken with the term, pick-pocket. However, it was not only laws that were held sacred; oaths too mattered as much in her law court. Mother of Idiots had led the group on that first occasion as she always did, passionate and sentimental of very damn thing. She succeeded as much to lift her round, large hip only to sit it in a fine craft nearby. In any rate, what should have followed was a stream of gossip because she had sat down. Today she wouldn’t show up with her regular emissary to scoop Kwado away from Mother of Children’s heavy trouble. She had chosen to sit behind to save her stretch marks manicured face. A hard choice against Kwado- the only humane person she considered among the foot soldiers Mother of Children bore each year, because he always paid his commission from pick-pocketing. Today, he had stolen again, and it gave Mother of Children all the effrontery to do as she wished. The kind of gusto she had sought autonomy of without having to deal with these interferences that hackneyed.