Edwin's Corner

Jude could not sleep. The pain had grown beyond anything he could name. It rose from deep within him and spread until he could no longer tell where it began or where he ended. Six months earlier, he had learned the truth. Now that truth had forced him to a decision he could no longer postpone. He could continue lying to himself, or he could face what was happening and let go. But to Jude, letting go felt dangerously close to choosing death. The Man Everyone Consulted For years, Jude had built a successful career as a tax consultant — sought out and respected, exceptional in how he delivered his work, regarded as a thought leader across the region. People called him when the numbers grew complicated, when transactions stalled, when regulators asked uncomfortable questions, or when the tax implications threatened to swallow a deal. He knew how to assess risk. He knew how to hold several possible outcomes in view and advise on what to protect, what to release, and what the long-term conse...

  No one ever explained suffering to Joseph; he simply lived through it. He had grown up in poverty — not the kind that strips away all dignity at once, but the kind people slowly learn to accept. The kind that gets blamed on the government, the rich, bad luck, or the circumstances of the day. In that world, the haves were accused of stinginess, while the have-nots took a strange pride in surviving without them. Joseph’s family lived in the ghetto, but they still had some basic necessities. They had clean water and electricity that, unlike Nairobi’s unpredictable weather, stayed stable and dependable — even though it had been connected illegally. On good days, they ate three meals. But whether a day was good depended on whether his father drank away his earnings. Joseph’s suffering meant going without one meal, then another, as money meant for food disappeared into alcohol. It meant hearing other children laugh because his father had been pulled from a ditch again — sometimes in a ...

  Read: Part One  Michael did not look like her father. That would have been too easy. He did not arrive drunk for their first date. He did not slap her. He did not tell her that women were useless. He listened. He laughed. He noticed small things. He remembered what she liked. He admired her intelligence rather than feeling threatened by it. Most importantly, Michael made Apondi feel something she rarely let herself feel: wanted. She had spent most of her life being useful, but useful and wanted were not the same. Michael seemed to want her even when she produced nothing. For a woman whose entire identity had been built around performance, that feeling was intoxicating. She fell hard. Her siblings were less enthusiastic. Her older brother noticed things — the little jokes at her expense, Michael’s dislike of being contradicted, and how quickly his charm turned cold when he did not get his way. Her older sister noticed how he spoke about his previous girlfriends: apparently, e...

Apondi was born on a Friday. Her mother said that meant she was lucky. For years, Apondi wondered whether the luck had been delivered to the wrong child — because if any had visited their small village home, it had done so very quietly. Her father was a soldier. Or, more accurately, he had been one. He had seen combat earlier in life, before an injury ended his military career. He had come home honorably discharged, carrying a small pension, a soldier’s discipline, a body that had known violence, and perhaps wounds nobody in the village knew how to ask about. As the only son, he settled on his father’s land. He planted maize, grew sugarcane, drank, and terrorized his family. There were five children in the house — though everyone knew there were others scattered among different women; Apondi never quite knew how many. Her father was amorous when he wanted to be loved, authoritarian when he wanted to be obeyed, and terrifying when he had been drinking. Nobody challenged him. Once, the v...

  Previously in part one  The room went quiet. Not ordinary quiet — the kind of quiet in which even memories seem to take their seats. James held the letter. Their father’s handwriting was unmistakable: strong, deliberate, and annoyingly confident. Even from the grave, the man seemed incapable of a tentative statement. James read on. My sons, If you are reading this, one of you probably believes he has won — and the other believes he has lost. If I know my sons, James is angry that I anticipated this, and Mathew is trying not to smile. James looked up. Mathew was trying not to smile. “Ridiculous man,” James muttered. “Keep reading.” James did. I have spent much of my life teaching you both how to succeed, how to work, how to negotiate, how to recognize opportunity, how to read people, how to build and how to protect what you build, how to make money, and how to compete. What I am less sure of is whether I taught you how to become men capable of safely carrying success. That fa...