But in the iláya, the hinterlands, the children were more aware of creatures that lurk in the shadows and that wait in the hollows between waking and sleep. These children knew when to go home, when the fruit bats rose from slumber, when the first of the cicadas sang, when the neighbours’ dogs began to howl. They knew. Dílî ingon nátô, the adults would say, gathered over a lone kerosene lamp like moths. Literally, “not like us.”

Read More