Between the hustle and her

For every young man standing at the crossroads between survival and the life he promised someone else.

The Morning Run

Bakang woke up the same way he always did — to the sound of a taxi hooting somewhere down the road and the smell of last night’s cooking oil still hanging in the small room he rented behind a spaza shop in Phase 5. The ceiling had a long crack that looked like a river. He stared at it for a few seconds, then sat up.

His phone had three missed calls. All from the same number. He didn’t need to check the name. It was Gupta. Gupta only called when there was work.

Bakang rubbed his face, pulled on yesterday’s jeans, and stepped outside. The sun was already sharp. In Gaborone the mornings didn’t waste time. He walked to the corner where the usual guys stood, hands in pockets, eyes already calculating the day.

“O sharp?” Gupta asked, not really waiting for an answer. “There’s a guy in Broadhurst who needs phones moved before lunch. Clean ones. No stories. Five hundred each if we do it quiet.”

Bakang nodded. Five hundred was rent. Five hundred was airtime for Osego and something left over for food. He didn’t ask where the phones came from. He had learned a long time ago that questions were expensive.

By nine o’clock they were done. The money sat in his pocket like a small, warm animal. He bought two fat cakes and a Coke, then sat on a low wall watching the city move. Somewhere across town, in an office with glass windows and air conditioning, Osego was already at her desk.

He checked his phone. She had sent a message at 6:47 a.m.

Morning baby. Presentation at 10. Wish me luck. Love you.

He typed back: Luck. Kill it. See you later.

He didn’t tell her about the phones.