He died over a bike, over the alchohol induced audacity to make away with a rickety motor bike.

I knew he wasn’t going to live the moment I saw him… his attackers didn’t intend for him to. I still said a silent prayer for him.

He’d been stripped naked and looked like someone had paid attention to detail in ensuring that every inch of his body had been given a measure; he looked like a corpse that skipped a couple of stages of decomposition straight to the bloating.

From the conversations around I could gather he was no stranger to this street. I imagined he had friends, maybe even a relation or two in the crowd, they wouldn’t dare attempt to take him away, wouldn’t dare try to help. Around here that would be a stupid thing to do with a crowd this size hovering around.

I hovered around until finally someone came to take him away, I tried look at his eyes, I hoped he’d look into mine, see that someone in this crowd had some pity, some sympathy. It was useless, his eyes where swollen shut.

I went back in, I had chores to do. I couldn’t sleep for days.

That was more than seven years ago. I sleep very well now. I’ve seen worse.