the smuggler’s bible

Umukoro

Umukoro left his backpack somewhere between floors fourteen and nineteen—just dropped it on the landing, let it go with a shrug.

At the time, it was what he needed. The feeling of easy freedom the act created (and, later, when nothing more remained, the memory of the feeling) got him through the twenties, free and clear.

But people change. Things once casually abandoned may become, with sufficient distance, sorely coveted. A portion of love is nostalgia, and the better part of nostalgia is hindsight.

And with hindsight, from the wasteland of the thirties, Umukoro fuckin’ misses those granola bars.