He had been caught. The paint on his hands was proof. He had
been working, and working on a tourist visa, nonetheless! What would his wife
think? He had promised her that he would return, with lots of money for them,
their home, their children and their village. But what would the police do now?
Would they take away his earnings? Deport him? Ban him from the fruitful and
prosperous country that was New Zealand? What would he do for work? Where would
he go for work? New Zealand was his hope, his family’s hope!
He sat alone in a desolate gaol cell. Oh, the shame! He was
like an animal, trapped in a cage. What would happen to him now?
And poor Mrs Davidson. He hadn’t collected her post. The
clock on the wall said it was just after three-thirty p.m. She must be worried
sick!
Ha! his inner
voice scoffed. She won’t be worried about
you! You’re just a coconut!
Jimi’s inner voice was wrong. Mrs Davidson would be worried about him. They were
friends. He worked for her, he talked with her, he did nice things for her. Of
course she would be worried. Who would collect her post now?
And the worst part: he never finished the fence.
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