He tossed from one side to the next; he sighed, he got up and rummaged in the plastic box for tablets, for a headache and nerves. I lay on the same bed watching him in the dark. The luminous hands of the alarm dock pointed eerily to 4. When he turned the radio on, I got out of bed. There wasn't much I could do for him. His beloved was dying and he was grieving for her - on my bed.
Ugbabe, Kanchana, The White Rooster, Kunapipi, 14(3), 1992.