The news on the small, crackling TV in Sele’s new post talked about a massive fire at a godown in the Mombasa port. Millions in contraband destroyed. A mysterious explosion. Two cartel lieutenants found bound and gagged. No arrests.

Sele wasn’t just any police officer. He was the area’s unofficial conscience. A man with a belly that spoke of many ugali dinners and a face etched with the fatigue of twenty years of service. He had watched Abdi grow from a barefoot boy kicking a ball of rags into a young man with fire in his eyes.

Abdi paused, his silhouette a dark cutout against the flickering neon light of a roadside kiosk.