Aciro's Song

A voice pierced through my door made of the USA oil tins I got from the World Food Programme every three months. Aciro was crying. It was a cry that started as a muffled sob, cautious and then slowly gained momentum. Sometimes it chortled like an old Peugeot that had run out of fuel. Tonight, it sounded clear like the church bell that rang at the makeshift church in the camp calling us to pray to a God who had abandoned us.

Aciro cried a lot these days. She had been crying since her daughter Loretta went out to collect raw mangos and never returned. We had waited for her like we did each time she had stealthily left the camp with other women foraging for food because the relief food was insufficient.
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