The Ladder Thief Nano 2025

CW: Themes of grief and loss

Kolwezi, DR Congo

The weathered stool creaked as Juma sank down. Gravel crunched underfoot, making way for his worn flip-flops. Batman sandals. His first birthday present from his parents. The only one he ever got. The rough streets of Kolwezi had reduced it to its sorry state, but Juma wasn’t one to complain. It was intact. Barely so, but still, intact. That counted for everything in the Ntumba family.

If it could even still be considered a family.

A low whirring sound rang out, followed by a thick cloud of smoke.

Juma hacked a cough. Uncle Zuberi’s car again. His white Toyota had aged so much it now resembled a heap of tattered metal, but he simply couldn’t bear to part with it. Of course, Juma understood. It was more than a matter of sentiments. The car was his lifeline, his transport across dust-choked roads to the mines hours away.

Besides, cars were pricey: over four million francs now, as the street vendors always grumbled. Four million. Four million.

That could get them months of cassava. Maybe even some maize.

Muffled footsteps.

Juma blinked, glancing up. A stray goat peeked back at him with narrowed eyes. It lacked a right horn, its fur frayed and missing in patches.

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze following the creature. The goat stared back. A runaway goat, probably, judging by its dishevelled state. He knew how ruthless his neighbours could be. 

“Rough treatment makes them stronger,” a pudgy Luba man had claimed at the market, a dark gleam in his eyes. 

Poor goat. Abused over selfish, baseless claims. 

“Go on,” Juma said, in thick Swahili. “Before they catch you. Enjoy your freedom.” He waved the goat off with a sharp flick of his hand.

The goat didn’t budge. It tilted its head, replying with a breathless maaa. Clearly it didn’t understand.

“Go. Just go. Nothing worth seeing here.”

The goat dipped its head, studying Juma with a tired gaze. As though trying to memorise every contour of his sunken face. 

“Please.”

It hesitated, then resigned, trotting away with a helpless bleat. Disappearing into the thicket of bushes.

Juma exhaled.

He was all alone again.

Loneliness gnawed at him. It'd been gnawing at him for a while, leaving nothing but an ache where his heart should have been.

Maybe he shouldn’t have shooed the goat away. Poor company was better than no company at all.

Silence. Except the distant chatter and humming of motorbikes. Water dripped from the ragged roof, hitting the ground in a steady rhythm. Plip… plop… plip… plop… 

The roof was leaking again: probably a hole or two. Back then, Baba would clamber onto his rusty, creaking metal ladder, sealing shut any leaking holes with his trusty bunch of blue tape. Soon their roof was smothered by so much blue tape his sister, Karima, often mistook it for the night sky in the dark.

But now Baba was gone. So was the rusty ladder.

Probably stolen by his neighbours.

Juma sighed, propping his head on his hands. Injustice. So much of it, in this cruel world. If only he had Baba's optimism. If only he could wrap his arms around Karima and whisper Baba's favourite lyrics to her: "there is hope, there is paradise, we just need to live and forgive."

He almost scoffed. Baba had trusted God. Look where that led him. Would a God who let him suffer in life really care in the afterlife?

No doubt God existed. But Juma didn’t care. Not the God of promises, not the God of mercy. He lived by simple virtues: treat him nice, and he’ll be nice.

If God had to take both Baba and Mama, then Juma wanted nothing to do with him.

“Oh, look who it is!”

Juma glanced up again. A cluster of boys crept forward like a pack of jackals, eyeing him with looks varying from sympathy to scorn. None of them mattered. Not unless a million looks of pity could restore Baba and Mama from the grave. 

Leading the hunt was his classmate, John. He flashed a toothy grin as he stumbled past, a tight Barcelona jersey clinging to his bulky frame, the name ‘MESSI’ faded on the back. Juma wasn’t surprised. He wore that shirt everywhere. He clutched a peeling football, its orange surface cracked like a decaying fruit.

“Oi! Juma! Come, let’s go play football!”

Juma pursed his lips, shaking his head. He’d love to. But he couldn’t leave Karima alone.

John turned back to his pack, wearing a look of disbelief. “Did you see that? He said no! Mjinga, whatever. Fools will be fools.”

The boys exploded into laughter as they clattered away, Juma the joke to brighten their day.

Juma buried his face in his hands.

“Kaka Juma?” a voice from inside the hut croaked, fragile. Juma froze. His sister. Karima.

“Mmmm?” he replied, rising from the wooden stool. His knees protested with a harmless click as they shifted to support his weight.

“Come in. Please.” 

“Why? What happened?”

“Just come in.”

Juma bit the inside of his cheek as he hobbled into the simple mudbrick hut they called home. 

His heart twisted when he spotted his sister. Karima curled up on the bed like a shrivelled leaf, dark hair pooled around her as a shiver rippled through her body.

The fever had been tormenting her for weeks. But Juma had no way to get her medicine.

“I’m hungry, Kaka. I’m hungry.”

Juma sighed, lowering himself onto his knees beside her. This was becoming a daily ritual for the siblings.

“We don’t have food, Karima. You know we don’t.”

“I’m hungry, Kaka.” 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m hungry, Kaka. I’m hungry. Please.”

“I-” Juma paused, his voice dying in his throat. Maybe it was the pleading look in her eyes. Or the desperation in her voice. Or the way she’d whimpered the last word. Whatever it was, it had completely disarmed him.

“Sawa,” he relented, the quiet, broken ‘okay’ slipping past his lips. His gaze fell to the floor. They hadn’t had a proper meal in days. They probably wouldn’t have one in years. But Karima was hungry, and that was not sawa. He’d have to figure out something. 

Karima was counting on him.

CW: mention of blood

Juma stepped aside as a shrieking chicken charged past, ruffling its reddish-brown plumage. The clatter of fallen tomatoes erupted as it darted between crates. Shouts, everywhere. Fuming vendors. Stubborn shoppers. The distant cries of a wailing baby. A motorbike trundled past, knocking over a skewered fried fish from a nearby stall. The stall vendor hollered something offensive in Tshiluba, an arm raised in indignation. The biker’s mother better stay alert tonight.

Kids darted between legs, squealing, shoving and tumbling their way through the crowd. Smoke from charcoal stoves, mixed with the earthy tang of cassava. It smelled of sweat. Dirt. Bird droppings.

Even the word “chaos” didn’t do justice to the absolute mayhem of Kolwezi’s markets. 

“Boy, you’re stepping on my mat,” someone hissed, barely audible amid the cacophony of voices. Juma glanced down. It was a woman shrouded in a purple headscarf, eyes narrowed into slits thinner than a knife edge. “Sorry,” he said, scooting away. He dipped his head in an apology. “So sorry.” 

“You better be,” the woman snarled, pulling closer her baskets of red chilli pepper. “Ondoka, kijana! Get out of here!”

Juma didn’t need to be told twice. He stumbled back, heat prickling across his neck. A few passerbys snickered. Moments like this always stirred an old, familiar sting. One that whispered he didn't quite belong here. But fine. Let them glare. He had bigger concerns than cranky market aunties.

Something gave a soft, wet squish underfoot. A loose orange had rolled free from a nearby stall, wobbling to a stop. Juma stooped to snatch it up, a grin tugging at his lips as he pocketed it. Food was food. Anything to fill Karima’s empty stomach. 

“A thousand franc! It’s a disgrace! Back in my father’s time dishonest men like you didn’t exist!” a porky man from the right boomed, clad in a pale yellow t-shirt. Heads turned. Someone cheered. The lanky stall vendor shrunk back, though his head remained tilted up like a defiant child. “I’ve stated my price. Take it or leave it.”

Market drama. Entertainment in its finest, purest form.

Stay focused. Juma thought, flicking a house fly off his rumpled sleeve. He wasn’t here for public spectacles. He had to find Karima food. 

A sudden force rammed into Juma, sending him reeling over a crate of bananas. The world tilted. White spots flooded his vision, brighter than sunlight reflected off a crinkled metal sheet. Brief numbness. Then a jarring pain shot up his gut.

“LAST ONE TO THE SIGNPOST HAS TO LICK BABA’S TOES!” the force squealed, disproportionately squeaky for its strength. The voice dissolved into giggles and fading footsteps. 

“Ew,” another voice said, as what sounded like a herd of raging bulls rushed past. An explosion of childish laughter. Then a strangled yelp, distinct from the million other voices clawing at his ears. A rough thud as someone hit the cracked floor. 

Juma blinked through the blur, his shoulders screaming as he pushed himself upright. The market spun in shimmering ripples, every colour and sound stretching and warping around him.

Kids. Inconsiderate kids. As if finding food wasn’t hard enough.

The world snapped back into focus. The distant smudge of white sharpened into a threadbare tarpaulin, flapping in the hot wind, sheltering a scrawny woman in a flowery dress. Neat piles of t-shirts rested on the crate beside her, edges frayed, colours faded, but still bright against the dusty market floor. The woman looked friendly enough. Maybe she’d be able to help him.

Juma blinked, flexed his fingers and took a cautious step forward. Then he saw him. 

Juma froze. 

The boy couldn’t have been older than six, trembling on his knees. A ruffled feather stuck out of his frizzy hair, a smear of crimson staining his cheek. Blood. 

Cold, crawling dread skittered down his throat. The war to avoid Baba’s toes had claimed more than one casualty.

Juma hesitated, instinct warning him back. His compassion won.

“You okay?” he asked, risking another step forward. “I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

A set of dark brown eyes peered back at him, shimmering with unshed tears. Doubt. Fear. Wariness. Everything the boy’s parents had taught him about strangers, reflected back to Juma. He’d been a cautious child before too. Back when Mama was still around. When she’d drape her old blanket over his scrawny frame, kissing him good night. Telling him it would all be fine.

“Come on,” Juma cajoled, bending lower until he was eye-to-eye with the boy. He offered a hand. A rare gesture of kindness amid Kolwezi’s indifferent streets. 

The boy blinked back. His gaze fluttered down, before returning to meet Juma’s. This time a new feeling registered. It was weak, no more than a tiny spark. But it was there. Hope.

The boy lunged forward, burying his face into Juma’s chest.

“Woah, easy there,” Juma laughed, giving him a gentle pat on the back. “It’s alright- hey, hey, why are you-” 

Something slipped out of Juma’s pocket. Blood drained from his face as realisation struck him, a second too late. No. No way.

The boy had already wriggled out of his grasp, sprinting away before melting into the crowd. The final flash of orange in his palm confirmed it. Juma’s orange. No, Karima’s orange. Stolen.

Gone.

Shock flooded his veins, paralysing him to the spot.

“Tough luck, kijana. Can’t trust anyone here it seems.”

Juma turned. A wiry boy shoved a crate aside, sending a screeching crash across the dusty floor. Dark, glassy eyes bore through Juma. Unblinking. Piercing, like a scorpion’s sting. The boy smirked, brushing back his sleek black hair. The reek of rotting fish hit Juma as he approached, towering over him.

Juma clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. “What do you want?”

The older boy laughed. 

“Nice. Straight to the point. And here I was thinking you looked friendly. I’m Tambwe. You?”

Juma took a step back. He pursed his cracking lips, head lifted in pride. Then a horde of screeching chickens scrambled past, nearly dragging him away with them. A squeal escaped him as he hopped out of the way, coughing on the dust. Tambwe clicked his tongue, eyes locked on Juma. He gave the crate a hard kick, spilling bunches of golden bananas.

“What? Don’t have a name?”

“Juma,” he replied, eyes darting to the dropped fruits. Tambwe seemed to notice.

“Juma. So it really is you.” He licked his lips. “You want one, don’t you?”

“What?”

“A banana. For Karima.”

“I- what- how-”

“Not now. Not important. You want one, don’t you?” he crossed his muscled arms, eyes flashing impatience. “Am I right?”

“I- yes! I-”

Tambwe pressed a finger to Juma’s lips, then spun, scooping a hefty bunch from the open crate. Bananas landed in Juma’s open palms. He staggered back, dust puffing around him. He knocked into someone, who cursed and shoved him away. 

“Still the same boy, after all these years.” Tambwe scoffed.

“Asante,” Juma murmured gratitude, glancing down at the gleaming bananas.

A pause. Then Tambwe sneered, stepping closer. His hand shot out and clasped tight around Juma’s shoulder.

Juma’s heart skipped two beats.

Tambwe leaned in, his grip tightening like the jaws of a vicious tiger. Too close. Far too close. Juma could see every freckle dotting his face. Feel his breath against his skin as Tambwe spoke in a hushed whisper.

“Tomorrow. Before sunset.”

Juma blinked. “Sorry?”

“Nothing’s ever free, kijana. Meet me here. Tomorrow, before sunset. Do as I say. Or else…”

The malevolent glint in his eyes said it all. No bargaining. 

Tambwe released him, thrusting him back into the unruly crowd. Then strode off, back into his flapping white tarpaulin. 

Juma’s heart raced, his palms slick with sweat. He clutched at his precious bananas, jostled by shoppers as they scurried past. Something blue caught his eye. A rusting metal ladder, leaning against Tambwe’s tarp. Juma’s heart pounded. It couldn’t be.

His gaze found the third dented wrung and his eyes widened.

He hadn't seen it in a while. Not in real life, at least. But he still saw it in his dreams. His memories. Vivid. Painfully vivid.

Juma paused. He couldn't come to terms with what this meant.

Not just any ladder. Baba’s ladder. Tambwe was the ladder thief.

More bodies slammed into Juma, and he was swept away into the heart of market chaos.