Roll One

The sun hung low in the sky, a dull orange ember smoldering behind a haze of dust. Chwa found Bandia perched on the cracked concrete slabs that served as the stairway to their mother’s house. Bandia’s eyes were half-lidded, the whites tinged pink, his gaze drifting lazily over the empty yard. The scent of burnt herbs clung to him—earthy, pungent, familiar.

They greeted each other with a loose bump of fists, knuckles barely grazing. Chwa lowered himself beside his brother, the rough concrete biting into his thighs. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was comfortable, worn-in, like an old shirt.

Finally, Chwa exhaled sharply and said, "Bandia, I think it’s time I started smoking weed."

Bandia turned slowly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh? And what brought this grand revelation?"

Chwa rubbed his palms together, staring at the dirt between his feet. "I used to think I could get through this life sober. Thought if I worked hard, kept my head down, things would change. But look at me—look at us. Nothing changes. Just the same dirt, the same hunger, the same damn cycle. I need something to… I don’t know, make the days lighter. Make me forget for a while."

Bandia chuckled, shaking his head. "Weed doesn’t make you forget, brother. It just makes you not care that you remember." He plucked an invisible speck from his knee. "You think it’ll wake you up? Nah. It makes farmers forget the sun is cooking their backs. Makes guys like me sit in filth all day and not even notice. Makes dreamers float away, thinking life’s better than it is."

Chwa waved him off. "Then why do you keep smoking it? Hypocrite."

Bandia grinned. "Because not caring feels better than caring too much."

A pause. Then Chwa added, "Mose came by yesterday. Sat in my house for an hour waiting for you."

Bandia groaned. "That fool’s lost his mind. Ever since I gave him a roll of Manu’s high-grade, he’s been on my neck like I’m some damn dealer. I told him—I don’t sell. I consume." He flicked an imaginary cigarette. "I’ll send him to Brayo. Let him bother the new guy."

Chwa snorted. "Weed ruined Mose. Remember how he used to be? Up before dawn, tending his goats, fixing his fence. Now? All he does is chase the next high. You’re a terrible influence, Bandia."

They both burst into laughter, the sound echoing across the empty compound.

Bandia’s smile faded as he stared into the distance. "Remember when Manu came looking for me that day? Almost got mauled by Mother’s temper."

Chwa shuddered. "Lucky for him the gate was locked. If Mother had gotten hold of him—"

"Nonsense," Bandia interrupted. "Manu’s smooth with words. He’d have charmed his way out."

"Like Mose did?" Chwa countered. "You saw how fast he ran when Mother started shouting. Manu’s no different."

Bandia conceded with a shrug. "Maybe. But that day, Manu came with an offer—wanted me to be his dealer in this area."

Chwa’s eyebrows shot up. "Manu? Dealing weed professionally? That graduate?"

Another round of laughter, this time tinged with bitterness. The irony wasn’t lost on them—Manu, once the pride of their village with his diploma, now peddling herbs to numb the pain of unemployment.

Chwa wiped his eyes. "You almost went down that road too. Planting seeds in the backyard like some mad scientist."

Bandia’s face darkened. "And you all stopped me. Now look—Manu’s probably stacking money while we sit here broke." He sighed. "Musa said he planted the seeds I gave him in Nyawita. I should check if he’s lying."

"All will be well," Chwa muttered, more out of habit than belief.

Bandia scoffed. "How many times have we heard that? ‘All will be well.’ ‘God’s plan.’ ‘Just wait.’" He kicked a pebble. "I’m tired of waiting."

Chwa nodded. "Faith is a joke. I used to pray every morning—shouting, sweating, begging. And for what? Nothing changed. The church, the songs, the promises—empty. Reggae makes more sense now. At least it tells the truth."

Bandia smirked. "Remember when you joined that shouting church? We thought you’d lost your mind. Drums, screams—sounded like Legion Maria had kidnapped you."

Chwa chuckled, but his voice turned grim. "Women and religion—two things that make men do foolish things."

Bandia grew quiet, his gaze distant. "I don’t think God exists. If He did, the world wouldn’t be this cruel."

"Or He just doesn’t care," Chwa added. "Look at Syria. Kids praying for peace while bombs fall. Refugees drowning in the sea. The rich getting richer, the poor getting poorer. Where’s the justice?"

Bandia nodded. "Religion is just a story we tell ourselves to keep going. Without it, life’s too heavy to carry."

They sat in silence, the weight of their words settling between them. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the yard.

After a while, Bandia stood, stretching. "Did you bet on Chelsea to win?"

Chwa groaned. "And lose more money? No thanks."

Bandia laughed, clapping him on the back. "Smart man."

They walked toward the gate, shoulders brushing, the unspoken understanding between them louder than any prayer. The world was still broken. Their lives were still hard. But for now, they had each other—and maybe, just maybe, that was enough.