Days passed.
Takunda showed me the secret place behind the laundry line where you could sneak leftover bread if you were fast. He taught me how to fake a stomach ache to skip chores and how to win marbles by watching where the other boy's eyes looked before they shot.
He got in trouble a lot. Once for stealing extra rice, another time for fighting a Grade 5 boy who called him "charity case."
Every time, he came back with a grin like pain was a dare.
"Better to get hit for something you did," he said once, "than for being invisible."
I didn't know how to argue with that.
---
One Sunday, he showed me a carved wooden box under his mattress. Inside was a drawing — faded, childlike — of a woman with big eyes and long braids.
"My mother," he said, then quickly added, "Probably."
He never talked about her again.
---
David (present-day narration):
That was the beginning.
Not of happiness. Not even healing.
But of something I hadn't felt in a long time: recognition.
I saw in Takunda a mirror cracked like mine — the same war between softness and survival.
———
One night, after lights out, I found Takunda sitting under the iron stairs, hugging his knees. His slingshot was beside him, untouched.
"You okay?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Then, softly, "Do you think we'll make it out of here?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean—make it. As in survive… but still be us after." I looked at him and thought about the boy who made even misery into music.
And I said, "If you make it, I make it."
He smiled, tired.
"Then I guess we better both make it."
---
David (present-day):
That was the first time I saw doubt in his eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Just… the beginning of weariness. And I understood it — too well.
---
Weeks later, a visiting priest asked us to share what we wanted to be when we grew up.
"Pilot," said one.
"Police."
"Doctor."
Takunda said, "President."
Everyone laughed.
When it was my turn, I said, "Writer."
They laughed again.
Afterward, I asked Takunda why he said president.
He shrugged. "Because if I say it enough, I might believe it. And if I believe it, maybe one day they'll have to believe it too."
---
The sun set late that evening. The yard was quiet. I sat on the jungle gym beside him, our legs swinging.
He looked at me and said, "You know, if you write books one day, you better put me in one."
"You're not interesting enough," I teased.
He grinned.
"Then make me interesting."
---
David (present-day, voice soft):
> So I did.
> Because the truth is, when the sky wouldn't cry for me, Takunda did.
> And in a world that kept taking — he gave.
> His trouble, his wisdom, his loyalty.
> He wasn't perfect.
> But he was mine.
> My first story. My first home.
> My first brother.