Novels by Chiko Ilwa

Darin stood with both hands open, palms facing down, his fingers slightly tensed as if holding back the vibration traveling from his arms into his chest. His breathing was still heavy from the earlier impact, uneven, scraping his throat on the way in and out. Something cold pressed against the back of his head, a cold that could not be mistaken. Metal. Its shape was clear without needing to see it. The muzzle of a gun. He did not need to turn to know the angle or the distance. One pull of a finger.Across from him, Rian struggled weakly. His movements were small, ineffective. The ten-year-old’s body was too light, too easy to restrain. He fought in the only way he knew, twisting, kicking at the air, rolling his shoulders, hoping the grip would loosen, even just a little.It did not.“Stay still,” said the man holding Rian, his tone lazy, almost bored. His hand tightened instead, fingers digging deeper into the boy’s arm.Rian winced, his jaw set against the pain, but he did not cry. H

The truck engine did not roar right away.It came to life slowly, heavy, like the first breath of a large beast just waking up. The vibration traveled through the ground, up Darin’s legs, and settled in his chest. The sound alone was enough to make Rian step closer without realizing it.“Brother…” His voice was small. “Where… where are we going?”Darin did not answer.He remained where he was. One foot slightly forward, the other held back. The stance of someone who had not chosen yet, but was no longer neutral.The man in the black jacket glanced toward the cab. “Easy on the gas,” he said briefly.The silhouette inside nodded. The headlights flared on, slicing through the darkness and illuminating the narrow road the truck would take. A road that led straight toward rows of ramshackle houses and old shops that had stood there far too long.Darin lifted his hand slightly.“Turn it off,” he said.Not a shout. Not a threat. Just a flat tone, like a request that had come too late.The ma

The man stopped three steps short of the edge of the light.A nearly dead streetlamp flickered above his head, making his face surface and sink back into shadow. Black jacket, heavy boots, relaxed posture but ready. Not the type to shout while pointing a gun.The type who waited for his opponent to make a mistake.“Alone?” he asked, his voice low, almost friendly.Darin did not answer.He leaned slightly forward, his body shielding Rian without needing to look back. The stance was an old reflex, not warm or protective, more like a shield ready to crack.The man glanced past Darin, his eyes catching a small movement.“Oh,” he said softly. “You brought a kid.”Rian clutched Darin’s jacket tighter. His nails pressed into skin.“The kid has nothing to do with this,” Darin said. His voice was flat. Not a threat. A statement.The man smiled faintly. “In a place like this, everyone has something to do with it.”He glanced briefly toward the truck behind him. The metal tank sat still, heavy,

Their pace slowed as they entered a more open stretch.District 7 was not silent. It was holding its breath.Fire burned in the distance, not large, but enough to stain the night sky orange. The smell of smoke mixed with fuel clung to the air, biting at the nose and weighing on the lungs with every breath.Rian walked beside Darin, his steps short and uneven. Every time his foot slipped on the wet asphalt, he reflexively grabbed Darin’s jacket.“Slow down,” Darin said. “Don’t run. Running makes noise.”Rian nodded, but his fingers tightened their grip.“What if…” he whispered, “…we run into bad people again?”“Just say it.”“If I scream… will you get mad?”The question was simple. But Darin stopped.He turned to look at the boy. Rian’s face was dirty, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat and rain. Those eyes, the eyes of a child who should have been sleeping or playing, looked at him with open anxiety.“I won’t get mad,” Darin said at last. “I’ll grab you and we’ll run.”Rian nod

The fire in District 7 did not burn like a sudden war that swallowed everything at once. It did not arrive with a great roar or blinding flashes of light. It crept in quietly, slowly, like a disease slipping into the body of the city without a sound, killing it piece by piece.Smoke hung low between the decrepit buildings, clinging to cracked walls and perforated tin roofs. The glow of streetlights was smothered by gray haze, blurred and trembling, like tired eyes forced to stay open. Darin staggered ahead, his steps no longer steady, his shoulders tilting to one side. Rian followed two steps behind, head lowered, coughing into the sleeve of a shirt already blackened with soot.“This smell…” Rian whimpered softly, his voice hoarse. “It’s like burning plastic.”“Warehouses,” Darin answered shortly, his breathing heavy. “They burn the small ones first, panic people, mess up the streets, confuse the cops.”“And then?” Rian asked quickly.“Then they move in.”Rian stopped short, his shoes

The sirens did not leave.The sound pierced through the walls, pressed against the ears, and made the air feel tighter than it should have been. Darin stood in the middle of the dark, abandoned factory, his body rigid, his back against a rusted iron pillar, listening as the sirens echoed off cracked concrete and a leaking roof.Rian sat on the floor, hugging his knees tightly, like a child trying to make himself as small as possible. His shoulders were hunched, his oversized T-shirt wrinkled and damp in places. His hands were filthy, palms and fingers smeared with dirt, his nails black with dried blood, as if they had not been cleaned in a long time. He was not crying. The fire in his eyes was gone, his gaze fixed on the floor as though he were staring at something only he could see, as if fear had gone beyond its limit and no longer had a shape.“We can’t stay here,” he said at last.His voice was small, nearly swallowed by the sirens, but there was a raw urgency in it, the tone of a