09. In Mozambique, bala can mean but one thing: a bullet. It seemed that I was going to die at the hands of the nicest murderer in the entire world. A criminal who worries about his victims’ final wishes and refers to the projectile he’s about to shoot in the diminutive, to make it clear he’s
capable of affection. At this point, I was even overcome by a sort of fondness for the idea of my own death. When I opened my eyes, a tin of
menthol cough drops awaited me in the driver’s outstretched hand.“Well?” he asked again with a smile.