Tram 83. Fiston Mwanza Mujila

in your toilet. Lucien recalled Requiem’s “I prefer to piss at home.” He wanted to order a beer but not a single pair of eyes fell on him. It required the direct intervention of Joy Train Publications to resolve the situation. Finally, the first beer. The busgirl came over, vexed. Slammed the drink down. Stood back, bottle-opener in hand. Several seconds. Made up her mind, and opened the merchandise. A single verse:

      “Tip!”

      Lucien took out a bill.

      “Here.”

      She snatched the money and turned her back without a word. The traffic grew thicker. Our Indian friends, performing an anthem against global warming, child labor in the mines, deforestation, and the poaching of tilapia, pythons, piranhas, and white rhinoceroses, sowed panic among the common people. The women dissolved into tears. The men — tourists and other dropouts taken unawares by the sad saga of existence — shook their heads in repentance.

      Lucien swiveled his head in the hope of glimpsing Requiem.

      “How long you been in the writing game?”

      “Do you have the time?”

      “Ten years.”

      “What or who do you write about? Got a target audience? Expectations? How many copies? Any literary prizes? What genre?”

      He felt trapped. Questions shooting from all sides. He hadn’t even taken a sip!

      “Anything you’re working on?”

      He had to answer in the hope of getting published by Joy Train.