17
Luke Scarborough woke to the sound of his own snoring. He had never been so exhausted in his life. The breath whistled through his broken. His eyes watered with pain as he blew a clot of dried blood from one of his nostrils into his palm and wiped it on his filthy T-shirt.
The exhaust-smoke-shrouded office buildings of Lusaka were on either side of the bus, a stark change from the flat plains they been travelling through for hours. The driver called out something in Swahili, then, looking at Luke, the only white man on the bus, said, ‘Rest break coming up. Don’t go far from the bus, it’s only fifteen minutes.’
He had been travelling for three days straight. The first leg had been the unnerving boat trip from Zanzibar to the mainland, with the roguish band of Arab sailors casting nerv
