The skyline, gawking with architectural indigence, towered over the bowl like a row of stained, gap-toothed jawbones. - Moses Isegawa

The lukewarm fingers of nostalgia stroked the hearts of the old, garnishing the smells and the sounds and the fires with old truths turned to dull uncertainties in today’s environment.

Every migrant soul was now a compact little ghost captured in words, invoked from the lacuna by the oracle of Grandma and Grandpa and made to inject doses of old life into our present truncated existence.

Each jubilating hand had the potential to vivisect, each hailing mouth had the power to condemn someone to death.