Stale Cakes

I was surprised that the cake man passed by my door in a hurry without calling out to me. I was going to my mother’s house when I ran into him, and as we were on neutral ground I asked him what was wrong. With downcast eyes and few words he told me that it wasn’t “convenient” to talk to me, a neighbor had warned him that I was “one of those Human Rights” and could derail the management of what they were doing. Saying Good Evening, he ended the conversation. Poor country where the citizens don’t know how to reclaim their rights, where fear sows distrust.

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