The boats, and the children running back and forth across the beach when the river dried up; trips to the Careiro on the other side of the river Negro, when they would come back with baskets full of fruit and fish. He and his brother would run into the house, chasing through the back garden, hunting lizards with a slingshot. When it rained, the two of them climbed into the rubber tree at the back of the house, and Omar climbed higher. He was more adventurous, and made fun of his brother, who swayed back and forth in the middle of the tree, hidden in the leaves, holding onto the thickest branch, shaking with fear and afraid of losing his balance. He could hear Omar’s voice: “I can see everything from here, come on, come up.” Yaqub didn’t move, didn’t even look up; gingerly, he got down and waited for his brother: he didn’t want to be told off on his own. He had hated being scolded by Zana when they had run outside on mornings of torrential rain, and Omar, with only his shorts on, covered in mud, plunged into the creek near the prison. They could see the prisoners’ hands and their silhouettes, and he listened to his brother jeering and swearing, with no idea of who he was insulting: whether it was the prisoners, or the kids helping their mothers, aunties, or grandmothers get the clothes off the lines tied to the stilts of the shacks built out over the mud.

No, he certainly hadn’t the energy to follow his brother—nor the courage. He was angry with himself and with Omar when he saw his brother’s arm around the neck of a boy from the slum at the back of the house. He felt angry at his own powerlessness, and shook with fear and cowardice when he saw Omar challenge three or four stocky youngsters, taking their punches and giving as good as he got, swearing furiously. Yaqub hid, but he couldn’t help admire Omar’s courage. He wanted to fight like Omar, feel his own face swollen too, the taste of blood in his mouth, the stinging of his grazed lip, and the bruises on his head and face; he wanted to run barefoot, unafraid of the hot road surface scorched by the afternoon sun, or jump up and grab the kite’s string or its tail, as it sailed upwards in slow circles. Omar crouched down and leapt up, twirled in the air like an acrobat fell on his feet and let out a war whoop, showing off his scratched hands. Yaqub flinched when he saw his brothers hands full of blood, cut by the mixture of wax and ground glass on the kite string meant for cutting the strings of rivals.