On a crispy cold morning in September 2005 Buda and I walked down to the river to get hot charcoal from the Chang’aa (illegal alcohol) brewers to cook our lunch with. Once in a while we took a day off from work, to cook lunch together for some of our friends. When we arrived down at the river that day the men were in the process of filling the jerry cans with Chang’aa. This complicated process involved cooling the copper coil in the river until all the alcohol was caught in the jerry cans after which the residue in the drum was released from the drums with a loud explosion. The men had to take great care while doing this so we decided to wait before disturbing them. We sat among the men who were gambling close by. They rapidly played a complicated game of cards and I had a hard time understanding the rules. I observed the men instead. One guy stood out. Jeff. I had seen him down at the riverside before. He had a natural authority about him and he looked at me with an amused and slightly defiant look on his face.
“No 50 Cent here!”
and he gestured to all the men hanging about. “Here, we are all 10 Cent. We don’t get rich or die trying. We just try dying!”
