Our dangers have been mutual. When it’s a matter of survival the politics of a country left so far behind do not get first priority. If there’s no food, we all go hungry. If there is food, we eat. We share out equally. I keep the apple I am given in my pocket for the boy. I silently hand it over to him as we walk. My malli loves apples, the red ones. I’ll see plenty of apple orchards, I’m sure, laden with fruit of bright colours—russet, yellowy-pink, green—when winter is past, when I’m settled somewhere in Germany. If I reach my destination safely, that is. The boy takes a bite and offers the fruit to his mother. She smiles. Shakes her head.

‘You eat,’ she tells him in their language. They smile at each other. At home, the militants, the ‘Boys’, bite on cyanide tablets when they’re arrested. I’m glad he won’t have to do that here. I’ve grown too fond of him. He’s become my malli.

We come out of the forest. The timing is perfect. There’s a truck waiting on the side of the road. We get in. ‘Quick. Quick,’ the guide orders.

We begin our journey again. To the border. The German border.

At the border the truck stops. It’s instantly surrounded by border guards with their loaded weapons. Our hearts are quaking. We’re hiding behind the crates with their frozen carcasses of sheep and cattle.

‘What are you carrying?’

‘Frozen meat.’

‘OK, proceed.’

We scarcely breathe. The boy shows no fear. Even at a tender age the young ones know how to handle firearms, set off landmines. They’re not weak by any means. I’m not sentimental or homesick or anything. It’s just that malli keeps coming into my mind. He knows where I’m going. To Europe. To Germany. To become rich. Get a job, gain wealth. I know he looks forward to letters, photographs, gifts from a foreign city. He’s likely to boast and I’m sure he does, about me, to is friends.

‘Loku aiya is in abroad. In Germany. Look, he has sent me this shirt and this watch and money, too, German Marks to buy a new cricket bat …. He’s promised to send me lots of things …’