West Africa Is Darker and More Terrifying Than Myanmar

Raising money for the fare felt like a humiliating act of begging.

Gu Hui gritted his teeth and sold the only thing of any value in the house, a secondhand 21-inch color television, to a junk dealer in town for 150 yuan. He went to one relative and old neighbor after another, asking those who still recognized him for a loan, his face burning as he lowered himself to beg. One sweaty, faded banknote after another, crumpled ten- and twenty-yuan bills, gathered in his hands. Every penny carried either a sigh of pity or silent contempt. The most heartbreaking thing was selling the brand-new English-Chinese dictionary from Xiaomei's schoolbag. Her teacher had given it to her as a prize after she ranked first in the class last term. Xiaomei didn't cry. She just bit her lip hard, her eyes like those of a wounded little animal. Gu Hui turned away, not daring to look at her, his throat tight with anguish.