On Sidi’s fourth birthday, his dad gave him a yellow tricycle with handlebar streamers and a missing rear wheel. He had no friends to play with for the following week until Duna, whose father had also scoured the local landfill in vain for a similar toy, decided to cut his losses and share in his friend’s good fortune.
For many seasons, the African sun glazed the red laterite paths. The cracked sewer paths were overlaid with the orange velvet plush rugs of harmattan lilies. The friends spread their arms wide like wings, banking and steering, learning to remain in the saddle; teetering just above their neighbourhood of plastic, scrap metal, mackerel bones and human waste.
They crept through college and unemployment, selling sandals made from old tyres; each sale finalised with a flash of hopeful white teeth set in dark gums.
They wrote, ‘Dear Sir’ letters and received ‘Thank you, but…’ replies, until friends stopped buying the sandals.
One day, Sidi watched an aeroplane, bank, as it steered through crosswinds to land. On the ground, it rested its enviable full belly on three sets of wheels, like a rich, grownup tricycle.
Later that night, the friends hugged each other and clambered into each of the vibrating wheel wells.
They saw the runway lights fall away from beneath their feet. They tasted dust and unburned kerosene in the warm air.
As the landing gear slid inwards, drawn by a steel hydraulic pipe, Sidi wondered if the pilot had ever landed a plane that was missing a rear wheel.