It’s a bright morning. The sun is smiling warmly on just and unjust as they busy about their daily routine. I personally have nothing much to do but get to Post Office, send a permission slip, authorising Voicenet to publish one of my poems in their anthology. This done, I would come back home and work on my computer.

As I approached Post Office, a TIME magazine caught my attention at a newsstand. Though I did not stop to pick it up but I glanced at it and on cover read, “Slaughter of innocents” in bold red. Then I walked away.

Walking away from such caption if it be a graffiti in a subway is easy. But when it is boldly written on picture of a young boy, say age nine or ten; a frigid boy clothed in a blood stained panties, blood gushing out his nose and he’s crying passionately, I must say it is not easy to walk away if you are not heartless.

Paying for stamp, affixing it to my mail, dropping it in big box from which letters would be sorted out; I couldn’t get little boy out of my mind. In fact, I almost messed up stamp while thinking of that little stranger on a cover page.

Heroes are meant to appear on a cover page. Then what makes this boy a hero, I wanted to know? What if that boy is my son, will I walk away from him? What if that boy needs me to know what has happened to him? I can’t help from thinking of so many what ifs.

When ifs begin to stream into my mind, fear grips my heart. That moment I felt my heart taking twice it normal pace. I wanted something desperately, I wanted to go out to Newsstand and pick up that face staring at me.

I got to stand, but he was gone. The magazine was gone. It wasn’t sitting where I saw it first time.

“ I saw a mag right here and it- its gone. It’s a TIME . Of a little boy.”

“I sold it.” The vendor said smiling.

I almost strangled him for that.

“Can I have a copy please?”

“ Sorry, it’s dated for September 13 2004. Don’t have another copy.”

He tried selling me a current edition. But I declined.

I could have ordered that same edition of that little boy if I had a credit card. I would simply go online; place an order for that old edition. But I can’t because I stay in that part of this planet where credit cards are like some UFO.

I tried other Newsstands but to no avail. That edition is sold out. All what these vendors are trying to do is sell me a current edition. I was left with no choice than to vanish into rush crowd like every other person and try to come back to be who I am—A writer.

But instead of going back home to stare into my white screen monitor, I took a cab and went down to beach only to sit on a bench watching waves and thinking about that little boy who survived Beslan school siege in Russia.

After about an hour of living in oblivion, I heard a voice.

“Mind if I sit” she asked

I shook my head like I was being distracted by my girl friend while watching a football game. She sat beside me saying, thank you.

“I’m Helena Williams and you are?”

“Alfred, A.Z. Alfred” I took her hand as she says pleased to me you. I responded.

We sat in silence for say five minutes. And she broke it again

“I’m an editor of a local magazine”

“I’m a writer and a poet” I responded

I arrived early at this hospital but couldn’t see a doctor until after four hours of going through some tiresome routine. Finally, I got an appointment with a specialist and left.

Back on Broad Street, sea fresh air embraced me, washing away foul smell of hospital from around me. The breeze was so welcoming that I decided to take a short walk down street.

It’s been almost a decade I last stepped foot on Broad Street. The last time was my graduation from high school. My absence from here was not because my experiences in high school were some kind of bored moments. No, I had best days of my present life in my high school.

I attended Methodist Boys’ High School popularly known as gentlemen of Broad Street. They call boys gentlemen because school was situated on that street that is not too different from Wall Street, a business district. I had wonderful moments, which some people will hesitate to throw into a waste Bin. I threw it away anyway.

But this morning, out there on that same street that I walked for six years, I revisited my past. I floated on street like I’m dressed in white shirt, white jacket, school multi colored tie and a pair well pressed trousers sitting on brown shoes. I chose to wear my uniform that makes me one of gentlemen of Broad Street again.

Though I knew school had moved to Victoria Island (another part of city) but old fence and gate remain on former site. I walked to gate, greeted security men and asked if I can take a look in. They did let me.

I passed through gate and all that faced me was dilapidation. Stones covered with giant grasses and shrubs, which painted a picture of a wasteland. I could not make out where my favorite classroom used to be or chemistry laboratory where I do choose to read instead of library. I could not make out a thing that could link me with past years spent. I shook my head pitying this desolation that once gave me my wonder years.