Size / Zoom
My master keeps my memories in a carved stone box tucked in a pocket of his silver-foam coat. I know where it is. I know where everything is. That’s why my master keeps me.
He’s a great lord of his kind. Sometimes, when he’s pleased with me, he’ll open the box and let a memory slip out. It’s never much. A trickle of laughter. The profile of a face. The pieces settle into my mind, but never close enough for me to see the picture they should make. If I had that one picture I could find my way back to the world I walked before my master claimed me. The sun shone there. Here, there’s light, but only as suits my master’s mood. When he’s displeased, the sky grows dark and hollow as an armpit, and tiny sharp needles sleet down from the sky.
witnessing a deadly clash when muslims and christians in nigeria, their hatred fueled by ethnic rivalries mixed with poverty. it has results in hundreds being butchered this week near the central city of joss. our christian purefoy was there when a fellow journalist came under attack. reporter: from outsiders it s difficult to tell who is who here, but nigerians can pick up on the tiny clues of accent and dress to figure out who is christian and who is muslim and by, extension, who is unwelcome here. okay, there s a muslim journalist here on the scene. things getting out of control. i ve seen plenty of street fights in nigeria before, but this is different. the man in the black shirt with red sleeves, he s the journalist. it quickly became apparent that these young men wanted to kill him. a reporter for the national radio station radio nigeria, because he was muslim. like others at the scene, trying