Mohamed Yasin, Contributor

Selling weed cigarettes had become increasingly difficult for Augustus, aka 'Gussy', aka 'Soldier'. Police patrols were more frequent in the village and buyers had become scarcer through migration and incarceration. Marijuana production was also drying up due to army campaigns.

He knew all about the army campaigns; he had been a soldier. But he'd left, because life was hard at the army bases in the steamy jungles of Guyana's interior. Once he had contracted malaria and it had weakened him. He still carried the virus, and would suffer relapses when he became malnourished, which was really quite often.

"Listen, Soldier," said Sedge, Gussy's main supplier, "this weed-selling thing is slow and it ain't worth the risk, man."

"So, what we going do, Sedge?" Gussy asked. He stuck a finger into his matted dreadlocks and scratched. "Man, me child-mother ain't get no money from me for weeks now and me son got to get school stuff."

"I understand, man," Sedge said. He looked uncomfortable in the threadbare chair in Gussy's shack. "Hear, man, let's get into something bigger. I know a certain individual who going give you a lot of cash to carry stuff toa nice place in the Caribbean."

"I know what you talking about," said Gussy. "But ..."

"No 'buts', man, if you want the big money is either yes or no. You want this money for you child, right? And you smart, ain't it?"

"Yeah, man. I want me son get an education. I don't want he to be like me."

"Well, sh-t, man, Soldier, do it. Tek the risk. You going strike it big."

"Okay, okay," Gussy said. "I'll do it, man, I'll do it, I need the money. Um, Sedge, can I have an advance on the job, man?"

"We don't normally do it that way, especially for a first-timer ... But, all right, all right. A soldier's honour, eh?"

"So it's going be okay?"

"Yeah," said Sedge. "Tomorrow. Prepare to travel anytime."

"Oh, by the way," Sedge said, "You'll have to cut off them dreads - today. And shave."

"Okay," Gussy said.

He wasn't a Rasta or anything like that, but his dreadlocks gave him a kind of image in the weed market. Also, he never smoked the stuff, but because of his lean and mean appearance people thought he did. He didn't mind that. You had to be tough, or at least appear so, in this business.

A few of the youngsters roaming the streets and raiding garbage bins for food had once been his clients. That ultimate indignity was not for him. One day he would marry Adeola, his child's mother, and take good care of his seven-year-old son. Maybe the time had come for him to go a step further.

He knew that he had to swallow the cocaine sacs all strung together like, in a straight line; he understood how to recover the sacs at the right time by pulling on the end of the string; and he was aware that a ruptured sac in his stomach could mean a slow, tortured death. Being a mule was sort of crazy, but he knew people who had done it more than once and were now driving fancy SUVs and spending money like water flowing in the wide murky river.

If he succeeded he would do it again and again, until he had enough money to invest in a business; something like a craft shop was good. He could also manufacture sports and gamestrophies. He was a pretty good wood carver.

It was through the peddling of his wood carvings that he had met Sedge. One day at the Post Office Square in the broiling sun, Gussy felt chilly. Cold sweat erupted all over his body. The malaria virus was acting up. He started shaking. Up came this broad-looking gentleman. After enquiring about his condition the man offered to help. Sedge told him the feeling would disappear after a while. Perhaps out of kindness, or maybe something else, the man bought one of his pieces at a bargain price. From then on Sedge visited Gussy regularly and eventually introduced him to the weed business.

Gussy still had his precious wood carving tools, but he hadn't had the mind or patience to do any pieces lately. He had better go shear off the locks.

He watched the locks fall to the ground with soft, plopping sounds. Lice crawled slowly around the mounds. He would have to throw waste oil on them, then scoop them up in a heap for the trash pile at the back of the yard. He clipped close to the scalp. Then he shaved his head and face with the black, bone-handled razor that had been in his family perhaps since the days of slavery. Sometimes he figured the shackles of misery and despair still weighed him down, along with many of his brothers and sisters.

He was edgy that night. Thoughts of capture and spending time in prison triggered nightmares. But he needed the money: his future depended on it.

Early in the morning someone rapped on his peeling plywood door. He hastened to check. It was Sedge.

"Boy, you look different, black and shine. Real soldierly," Sedge greeted him.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, man. I like how you look, clean and serious. You passport in order?"

"Yes."

"You sure? Bring it, let me check."

"Okay, okay," Gussy said. In the bedroom he thumbed through a wooden box with a harpy eagle carved on the lid. He had made the box himself. The passport was just below his army discharge papers.

"Here it is." He noted the bulge on Sedge's left hip, covered by his grey linenshirt worn out of his pants. Most likely it was a 9mm semi-automatic.

Sedge quickly leafed through and pronounced it okay. "You passport has 'soldier' as you profession. For them authorities at the foreign airport, you still a soldier, right?"

"Oh, okay, right," Gussy said.

Sedge handed him a thickish brown envelope. "Fifty grand," he said. "Count it."

'Gussy tore open the envelope. Crisp-looking thousand dollar notes.

"Tha ...Thanks, Sedge. I appreciate this, man. I won't let you down."

"You better not," Sedge said. "You'll get spending money - U.S. currency - when you ready to travel."

Gussy had never observed Sedge looking so kind of unwell. His chocolate-brown face seemed puffy and his eyes bulged.

"You sick or something, Sedge?"

"I haven't been too well lately. Lots of pressure, man, lots of pressure. I'll see you soon. Get rid of the weed stocks you still have and lie low."

"I have only a couple cigs. Remember I didn't take from you for a while?"

"Yeah, that's true. Anyway, destroy them, okay? You onto the big time, now. Oh, and no cell calls to me or anyone."

"Yeah, yes," Gussy said. He didn't have any minutes on his cell phone. He had promised to get a cell for Adeola so he could keep in touch with his son.

Sedge walked out of the yard, darkened with giant, spreading mango, tamarind and banana trees and bush of all description. He sluggishly entered his battered blue Toyota Carina and drove off down the dusty dirt road.

Gussy hurried through his breakfast: two slices of whole wheat bread and a cup of hot plantain flour porridge without milk. He had run out of margarine and milk.

Soon, he arrived by minibus at Adeola's home. Their house was only a shade better than his shack, but her father, a worker in the City Council's sanitation and cleansing department, behaved as though he lived in a palace and was president of the flipping country. He had made it public that he hated Gussy for impregnating his only daughter. Gussy often marvelled at how funny people's behaviour could be: Adeola's father, for example, detested him, but doted on Denzel.

Yes, Gussy had named his son after the famous film star Denzel Washington. And, man, the kid was every bit as handsome as Denzel.

School was out for the summer vacation. But September was around the corner and Denzel had to get new uniform, new books and a new haversack. These things were expensive.

Denzel rushed towards him. "Daddy, daddy," he gushed. "I didn't know it was you ... You shaved your head and face. You look nice."

Gussy hugged his son. "Yes, I shaved off the dreads. They were troubling me."

"Dad, I want to come with you, I want to live with you." Denzel pouted.

"Soon, Den, soon ..."

"You always say that, Dad, and then I don't see you for ages."

"Soon, that will stop ... I love you and I want you to be with me."

Adeola had emerged from the house. She was getting chubby, Gussy thought. But she was still the most beautiful girl he had ever known. Her light brown skin was flawless and her body was always so darn sexy-looking. He wondered if she had another man.

"Gus, you brought the thing?" She enquired matter-of-factly.

"Yeah. Here it is."

She grabbed the envelope, ripped it open, and gaped at its contents. "Gus, Gus, where did you get this?"

"Don't worry with that," he said. "It's forty, take it and get things for the boy and yourself, okay?"

"All right, all right. Thanks, Gus ... Come in and eat something?"

"No," he said. He never liked to go into the house. It was just a feeling of not being welcome.

"Dad, please come in and stay a little," Denzil pleaded.

"Another time, soon," he replied and turned to leave. Glancing quickly back he saw tears in Denzel's eyes. His misted up too. But he couldn't let the boy see it.

Very soon Sedge would come as he said. Sedge was sort of okay, but business always came first, and when a deal went sour he could be steel-like and as cold as a misty morning in the interior highlands. Weed was one helluva thing, Gussy thought. But cocaine, man, that was murder. How could he do it? His world was bad enough as it was. What would it be like if things went wrong on the trip? But he had to go through with it: he had already collected on the deal. There was no turning back. Not with Sedge.

Suddenly, Gussy made up his mind. He packed his old army bag. He was a weapons expert. He would disappear into the interior and offer his services to a pirate camp mining illegally for gold and diamonds in the interior. He had heard that they paid well for ex-army soldiers because they knew the territory and could handle weapons.

But he had to hurry. Sedge could turn up anytime.