A prominent member of the community was killed nine nights ago. As the tenth morning approaches, we find ourselves with a group of local shooters inside a sweltering two-room concrete structure at the top of a small hill overlooking the funerary festivities. The air is thick with smoke from spliffs rolled with hot grabba; the only light creeps in from a single incandescent bulb burning outside the front door. While the spirit moves through the dead yard below, gun talk dominates up above. The big man in the room dispatches one of his henchmen to procure the pistol from the stash spot, saying grimly, “Organize dat!”


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