His name was Mr. Kalumba, but we just called him Uncle. He wasn't really our uncle, just
someone our mother used to know. A quiet man who lived a short walk from our village, past
the thorn trees and dried-up fields, in a rusty shack beside a faded strip of dirt he called a
runway.
The villagers said he used to be a pilot once, flew small planes across borders. But that was long
ago. Now, his plane sat rotting behind his house, its wings covered in old blankets and its tires
half-sunk into the soil.
"You sure he'll even listen?" my brother asked as we walked.
"We don't have a choice," I said. "If anyone can help us reach the city, it's him."
When we arrived, he was sitting on a crate, smoking a thin cigarette and staring at nothing. His
face looked carved from stone, deep wrinkles, eyes shadowed like he hadn't slept in years.
"Uncle," I called gently.