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By ORYEM ONGUTI LOGUCA. From Night Visitors... The tree trunks were wet, his tiny hands trying to slip; sweat kept on gushing out from all over his body. He allowed himself to be suspended by his toes. Even his naked belly grew claws to cling hard on the tamarind branches. The vultures above pitied him as he looked like a preying python in a veld. The birds were used to gunshot sounds; they always rushed to the battle scenes undisturbed. Death was feasting time. The boy’s testes sunk deep inside his body. The hard, uncompromising bark of the tamarind tree scratched his buttocks; he never felt any pain, perhaps ignoring it for life’s continuity. His breath and heartbeats competing for recognition.