Anondo debated whether he should go to work. The late July heat threatened to scorch the morning. An unknown fear had been gnawing at him for some time. He didn’t use social media, which kept him unaware of the turmoil around him. He had other worries—his father’s irresponsible gambling habit had forced him to abandon his studies and become the sole breadwinner of his household. He waited eight months for this single opening at the café and finally landed his dream job as a Café Assistant. It was much better than his previous position in the cleaning staff at the local hospital. If he worked diligently, he could soon become a Barista and earn more to support his mother and two young brothers. He prayed five times a day and remained apolitical. His dreams revolved around his family’s well-being.

“No, I gotta go to work! Shift starts at 2!”, he said to himself.

Anondo entered the café well ahead of his scheduled shift, but his supervisor’s sudden announcement of the café’s premature closure, startled him. The situation outside was worsening. Disappointed, Anondo went to the mosque for prayers with his colleagues. Afterwards, he sat with them for lunch. Chicken and fish were on the menu. He lost his appetite and couldn’t eat anything. Something was gnawing at him inside. He poured a glass of water from the dispenser, which reminded him of the new water purifier he had bought for his mother. It was quite expensive, at least for him with such a limited income while the inflation is skyrocketing each day. His mother had to scold him for “wasting money”, reassuring him that she was fine with boiling water on the stove. He smirked as he remembered his reply, “Ma, every time you drink water from here, you’ll remember me, whether I’m with you or not.” It was enough to silence her scolding.

“I should go home”, there was urgency in his voice. He realized he had spoken his thoughts out loud. “I don’t think you guys should go now. It might not be safe yet,” his Supervisor warned. “Nah, we are four people, we have uniforms and ID cards. Moreover, we will not be taking the main streets but the alleyways. I heard they are safe.”

It was a real challenge for them to navigate through the network of alleys—many of which had blocked exits by law enforcement members. He was so close to seeing his mother, “a few more kilometers…,” he heard his thoughts through the increasing volume of his heartbeat, which was gaining momentum by then.

“I don’t think you can go home; it’s going to get messy here. Cross the road, take shelter at my place until everything calms down,” a colleague advised, taking the initiative to cross the main street to reach his apartment on the other side. One by one, everyone followed him. Anondo followed, despite his mind’s eagerness to see his mother at home. Nothing else felt safer to him other than his mother’s lap. His thoughts were shattered by the deafening crack of a shotgun. Were there more shots after that? He could not tell. The echo of the shot continued through his involuntary scream, “O Ma go…”

A single shrapnel pierced right through the lower tip of  his breastbone, behind which he had kept the undying love for his mother. He saw red as the hemorrhage caused the blood to overflow through all his orifices, ornating the pitch-dark bitumen road just like flame trees do in June. Anondo could not realize as his body became lifeless in the moments that followed.

But I know…

Anondo did not return to his mother that day alive. He did not see his body piled up with other corpses on the hospital floor. He did not witness the doctors running from body to body, searching for signs of life, and making the harsh decisions of who to revive and who to let breathe their last. He did not see his friends and family unable to recognize him by his face but his blood-drenched uniform. He did not witness his family accepting donations from strangers to pay the freezing van driver to carry his body to his village for burial. He did not see the neighborhood vegetable seller’s dead body lying on the street, left for the dogs to feed on.

The tragedy is… we, had to see it all… and live with the fact that his life will remain unaccounted for in the death lists…

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or places is purely coincidental. If any part of this narrative appears to match real-life incidents, it is entirely a product of chance, and the reader is responsible for any perceived coincidences.