the smuggler’s bible


When the police knock down the flimsy hotel door, they find Thulile’s bed made and the window open, curtain fluttering limply in the humid turbulence the locals call a breeze.

After an abbreviated search, they find Thulile in the closet, trying to flatten herself behind a warped ironing board.

“I sort of thought,” she says, “you’d charge off down the street, thinking me only recenly departed.”

“Yes, I understand.” The officer is very delicate with the handcuffs. “But we have no way of knowing when, you see. Also, it’s very hot outside. Honestly, you would not be worth the effort.”