One of the few guys with no tattoos has been staring at my sneakers for too long and I know he’s trying to figure me out. I have four tattoos, and they are all on my arms. Maybe that will work in my favour, at least they show I can stand pain.

I will stand here, in the corner, for the whole night if I have to. I have slept under bridges, I have killed men with their eyes looking into mine. I am Nomafu’s son.

A cold hand over my mouth and a tight grip pulling my arms back are nothing compared to the knife going repeatedly into my thighs.

They aren’t trying to kill me, that I know for sure, because otherwise he would have gouged that knife into my heart by now. The stabs in my thighs are continuous but not deep. I can feel them. It’s my blood they want to see, not my dead body lying on the floor.