chapter  9
WithKate Meagher
Pages 1

1998 was a good year for rain in Nasarawan Doya, and mercifully, there was fertilizer. At the height of the farming season, the village appears deserted during the day. By four o’clock, the hoard of young men on motorcycles begins to gather at the village transit point to wait for passengers. The row of young girls selling snacks huddle against the front of the lock-up stalls, waiting for their market to come in from the farms.