A Mão e a Luva: 1 (Grandes nomes da literatura) (Portuguese Edition)

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Here the road is well lit, the lampposts twenty meters apart, with additional lighting from cars and traffic and the shops and flats on the other side. It was not as bright as day, but visibility was good. Kwame is still on the path, nearing the exit, when he sees Ryan walking back along the path toward him.

He appears relaxed, nothing untoward in his bearing. These are the moments, the minutiae of which has consumed me these last seven months, going around and around my mind till I thought I would be driven mad, the moments when normal things were done and casual words spoken, where microscopic alterations would have changed the direction of everything to come.

Orality and Writing

If Kwame had been slower gathering his bags and balls and equipment, he would still have been at the murder site when Tyson Manley caught up to Ryan, he could have stopped him, and my son would still be alive. The person crossed the road at a diagonal angle that landed him on the pavement Kwame had just walked along, so he was now behind him. Kwame looked back. Despite not being able to see the Quigg directs the jury to bundle number two and a photograph of Tyson Manley in a brown top monogrammed in gold, lifted from his Facebook page, posted at the end of February, almost three weeks before Ryan was murdered.

It is the kind of photograph I have seen in the newspapers when some young person has died and there is an implication that either the victim or the perpetrator were involved in gangs. Those same jury members would probably be thinking gang if they saw a photo of my son with Luke and Ricardo. The height, the build, the way he walked. Lots of the young guys bounce when they walk, but his was very pronounced.

Could it have been anyone other than Mr.


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I could have identified him anywhere, as long as he was moving. I looked back after he had passed, saw him go into the Sports Ground. He was walking really fast, even for him, kinda hyped. The whole thing just gave me a bad vibe. Ojea del tribunal absorbiendo todo. Rebosa naturalidad, tiene todo bajo control. Yo no estaba al tanto de eso. Siento como Lorna me da un codazo cuando una mujer se dirige hacia un asiento al final de nuestra fila.

Era la Sra. Puedo oler su perfume desde mi sitio. Kwame asiente con la cabeza. Hacen que su rostro fuera tan inexpresivo como el de su hijo. El entrenamiento fue normal. Terminaron a las seis en punto. El jurado lo detalla en el mapa del campo deportivo, donde las farolas pueden verse a lo largo del camino, a veinticinco metros de distancia. Estaba comiendo pollo con patatas. Este Kwame contesta: —Por todo. Todo aquello me dio mala espina.

Hace una pausa, entonces responde, moviendo la cabeza: —No. Bageye already finds it a struggle to feed his family on his wage from Vauxhall Motors, but now his wife Blossom has set her heart on her sons going to private school and she will not settle for anything less. This is the story of a feckless father seen through the eyes of his ten-year-old son. And it is also about a family struggling to belong and a vivid tale of growing up in a vanished world of s suburbia.

Lino From as far back as I can remember, my father, Bageye had always promised to make a start on his least favourite pastime: home improvements. The moment never arrived but he must have regretted having made the assurance because thereafter my mum, Blossom pressed him on the need — painful as it was — to begin by buying a piece of lino for the back room. Bageye woke irritably in the morning to yet another strong reminder that this was the day. He rifled angrily through a kitchen drawer, picked up a knife and began to peel an orange, as his wife laid before him the unarguable fact that the pickney were going to get sick from sitting on the cold floor from morning till night.

Bageye concentrated on the orange until all the skin was removed and the unbroken kiss curl of peel dropped into the bin. Mum tried again. Is you same one promise. He cut the top off the orange. Everyone assumed innocent positions on the floor or settee as his head came round the door. His eyes fell on the cracked and degraded lino. You pickney gonna bury me and you will bawl when them screw down the coffin lid.

Of course, we never addressed our father as Bageye. That was a pet name given him by the fellas. The legend was obscure to us. And the name stuck. But then everyone had to have a name. Outside, Bageye ran the chamois leather over the roof of the car before he got in, slipping behind the wheel.

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He turned to inspect how I intended to close the passenger-side door. It was what he always said when anything, any appliance or piece of furniture, needed to be replaced. It required some determination to squeeze through the heavily fortified front door to scrutinise the many items salvaged from house clearances and pawned items that were never likely to be redeemed.

Not Bernard. He puffed out his chest with all the proprietorial pride of the owner of an upmarket boutique. Bageye would have to check by a few of his friends first along the way. A few minutes into the journey, Bageye wanted to know how his son felt about a piece of carpet instead of the lino. Never know a woman love credit so. He had taken a Charles Atlas course and turned out magnificently. But more than his athleticism, it was his generosity that impressed our mother and us kids; only Bageye demurred.

Though Joe said it was a gift, Bageye shuddered at the shame of his wife letting Joe leave empty-handed. How you feel that make me look? Bageye pushed down hard on the brakes and stopped the car. Death before dishonour. He had the kind of noble face that looked as though it had been chiselled out of a mountain; and wavy hair that was all his own, no chemicals applied.

Joe was popular with women. His ways were a regular topic of conversation for my father and his spars.

Table of contents

It was a risk, but I decided to venture on a little conversation with Bageye, spicing my comments with some of the things I had heard the big men say. What puzzled me about Joe Burns, I said to my father, was which of the two women Joe lived with was his wife.

Joe and his women lived in one of those houses where you went from street to front room in one step. Except, on this day, there were so many sacks in the front room that we could hardly squeeze in. Each room in the house was full of hemp sacks brimming with corn on the cob, and the smell announced that they were just beginning to turn.

Dialoge über die natürliche Religion (German Edition)

Joe was a wheeler-dealer; he was a man who always knew a man who knew a man. Only one man liked to take chances more than Joe and that was Bageye. Bageye was in the mood now of the repentant gambler, suddenly struck by the ennobling idea of settling his debts. We pulled up outside the Indian tobacco shop. Mr Maghar was actually from Uganda. Before leaving me in the car, Bageye warned me, as he always did, not to touch anything.

My mind was fixed on the image of my father in conversation with Maghar, unsuspecting of the size of the bill he was about to receive. I forced myself not to look out of the car window but had no control over ears that strained to hear him returning, trying to work out the menace, the degree of violence in his footsteps.

Bageye took an Embassy Number 1 and pressed in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard. While he waited for it to heat up an idea seemed to come to him. When the lighter pinged he held it up. Mek Maghar stay there lick him chops.


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Is finish, I finish with him tonight. Tomorrow I would have to run and fetch ten Embassy Number 1. But tomorrow, from Mr Maghar, I also knew, there would be no fantastic tales of herding sheep on the hills of Juba. Bageye counted what was left of the money.

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Already the notes were few and starting to look grubby. It the lino money. Blood money. My father liked to smoke in company but he shared a cigarette the way he shared a joke: it was mostly for his own pleasure. Superkings held much more tobacco than a normal cigarette, and if Bageye could break one up, unpack it into a Rizla, add a little something to make it sweet, roll it again, then he could make it last a whole heap of time.

Anxious admired the cigarette as he dragged on the last draw, and I got up on cue ready to leave. Anxious laid a palm on my head.