C15 ZERO PERCENT MEANS NOTHING

The man at the gate was not Ethan.

He was tall, light-skin, wearing a faded leather jacket that was too hot for the Nairobi sun. He had a small scar on his left eye, like a thin white line that cut through his eyebrow. And he was holding a brown envelope, the cheap kind you buy at Posta.

"Amara!" he shouted when he saw you in the compound. Your leso was wrapped around your waist