It was just another day for Circle Inspector Shokie, nothing extraordinary, the date a meaningless number, the ways of the sun pointless, tired heavy footed darkness dragging dread terror dead, blood a colour, torture another pain, murder a mere classification.
Around midnight, she went to the hills, to a house in a rubber plantation, a father had hacked his wife and three daughters, before killing himself, he had felt slighted, ashamed, his eldest daughter had managed to elope with his tapper’s son, not his debts, not the fast approaching penury, love killed him.
From there, she had gone to the coast, a priest had abused two kids in his care, the people had to be kept away from the kids, the politicians too, they are just homeless kids he took care of she was told, he is a great guy, charitable, powerful, there was a diary with the names of other kids.
She had lunch at at a tea-stall near a school, a bun, a glass of sweet tea, a banana (robusta), her team was in civilian attire, they were just watching, young boys and girls peddling themselves, for drugs, sex, money, attention, the tea-stall owner a known ganja dealer, his help a pimp, the men who controlled them known but untouchable.
She got to her office at half past seven, a sub-inspector apologised for troubling her, a woman has been here all day he said, she won’t go, bring her in, a lady even more tired than Shokie entered, my husband has left me with nothing, he is a successful man in the society, my kids are with an abusive priest, they are forced to do all kinds of things, please help me, two tired women sat in an office, staring at nothing, the sound of dark silence within without with a muffled cry echoing fading.
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