Divinity Road by Martin Pevsner

dilapidated classrooms, doors off hinges, the missing window panes, the ever-hungry children. It must have been demoralising at times, but you never gave up and always made the best of the situation. And after the birth of each of our own children, after the maternity leave, once you felt they were happy and healthy, you always went back to your job, to your other children at that school.
    So there we were, ten years of growth. A cheerful home, two people in love, blossoming children, the respect and affection of family, friends and colleagues around us. We felt secure, invulnerable, our home an impenetrable fortress. And then, in the course of a single fateful evening, our citadel laid siege to, overrun, laid waste. The fragility of happiness.
    You remember the evening, don’t you? A day of national celebration, Eid ul-Fitr, the end of the month of fasting. The streets of Asmara heaving with crowds dressed up in their finest, the usual stream of families enjoying the passeggiata along Harnet Avenue, the stalls and cafés and restaurants buzzing.
    You at home with the children, supervising their efforts to decorate the house, preparing a delicious family feast of Eritrean specialities you had taught yourself over the years: the lamb’s tongue sember, the spicy zilzil keih, the milder derho alicha.
    And me out in the taxi, despite your protestations that on this one day of the year I should take a break. Up before the muezzin had made his early morning call to prayer, a full day’s work behind me already, ferrying the jubilant to their relatives or further afield, to the bus terminus, the train station, the airport. Returning home through the crowds at five, deciding to give in to your pleading and spend a precious evening together. And then, minutes after getting through the front entrance, no sooner had I kicked off my shoes, the knock at the door, the neighbour’s daughter bringing news of the onset of her mother’s labour, the plea to take her to hospital. So shoes back on, reversing out of the driveway, the women groaning in the backseat, her sister alongside me up front urging me to put my foot down.
    And then the drop off outside the maternity ward entrance, the sister’s fumbling with coins and notes, my refusal to accept payment for such a noble mission. I remember thinking, that’s it, now home to my loved ones. I recall feeling excitement for my neighbour’s family, but also relief that I was not about to embark on a night like theirs. After all, we already had our children. Our family was already complete. Already perfect.
    But before I could pull away from the hospital, I found myself blocked by a young white woman frantically trying to flag me down. She was smiling, mouthing something at me, an appeal to take pity and give her a ride I supposed, her face so pink it looked as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. I hesitated, picturing your disapproval as your feast grew cold and the disappointment of the children. But it went against my nature to turn down a fare, so I shrugged, pulled up beside her and waited as she climbed in alongside me.
    I go train of Massawa thirty minutes, she began in breathless, halting Tigrinya. Please help quick. Then added, as if to clarify, Please railway station thank you.
    And there it was. In accepting the challenge to reach the station before the departure of her train, I was sealing my fate. Of course, I cannot blame her. What is she guilty of? Slack timekeeping? An over-ambitious itinerary for the day? As we set off for the train station my speed was, I have to admit, a fraction higher than usual, but I was not distracted, my mind focused on navigating through the Asmara traffic and crowds of pedestrians.
    I was just negotiating my way across Bahti Meskerem Square when I hit the boy. I swear he came out of nowhere, sprinting onto the road, his head turned back, chuckling as he ran clear of his chasing friends, his mind empty save for the thrill of his game,