'Kill Shot' by Fu'ad Lawal

Nothing beats being in the right place, at the right time.

There are few types of people in the world who would seek out the cities that sit on the sharp edges of machetes and grenade pins. He is one them.

This city teaches him there’s only one true concern, one’s life. And then there’s his camera. The one things that puts food in his mouth. The pictures he can churn out of this city that is falling on itself are his lifeline.

It is for this reason he left the comfort of his home country, to this hot country burning with Sun and C4.

He is having coffee at a cafe near the district’s main market. He can hear hawkers calling customers, traders haggling prices, horns blaring from supply trucks in the hot sun, but he just focuses on his coffee. Today, he’s not observing anything except the black brew in his cup.

Boom.

A bomb goes off somewhere in the market. The force is so intense it shatters the window beside him.

His instinct tells him one thing. Go there. And armed with his camera and guts, he is running past people to the source of the explosion.

There are people and bits of people lying everywhere.

He just clicks away, walking in their midst, his heart racing faster than the people running everywhere.

Then he stops.

Before him is a girl, maybe six, crying mama.

She notices him and stretches her arm out, expecting him to reach out. He just stands there. Then he bends a little towards her, and raises his camera.

Click.

When he lowers it, her eyes and lips are still and her arms have fallen.

And he walks away, having captured her last moment, thinking about the front pages and the prize.

Fuad Lawalis a poet and copy writer. He blogs at rebelliousflash300.wordpress.com

READ: 'The Wife' by Fu'ad Lawal