How to light a cigarette

If you blow on a flame you can make it stronger. If you blow gently you can get the rise and then the crackle. If you’re harsh with it, you’ll get a gust of heat in your eyes and that’s the worst. If you’re really harsh, you’ll extinguish it. You can learn this quickly from setting fire to dry leaves and small twigs using your uncle’s Clipper lighter that you stole from the kitchen.

If you have a cigarette and glasses, you can light it using the sun. You can position the lens, so the light hits the tip of the cigarette. You gotta keep a steady hand but eventually you’ll get smoke.

It’s a bit tiring when you’re eight years old sat cross legged on the harsh earth, twigs leaving indentations on your leg, watching your grandad try and light a cigarette with his glasses. A soft breeze reminds you that this process will take longer because the sun is starting to set, and his furrowed brow isn’t making it easier. You move to sit in a squatting position. Elbows on your thighs, hands cradling your face.

Baba? How long does this usually take?

Sh.

How does me speaking make it take longer?

Sh. You’re distracting me.

From what? I thought you just had to not move your hand.

I said sh. See. Smoke.

The cigarette lights. Slowly the tobacco burns orange and red and then settles, grey gently rising from the tip. Your mouth widens into a smile. He takes a long drag and starts to walk off. The novelty wore off a lot quicker than it took to light it.

Can I try it?

No, you shouldn’t smoke. Let’s go, keep walking we’ve gotta get home before it gets dark.

What happens when the sun sets?

Bad things. Bad people come out.

You look around. Aside from the rust coloured cow following you slowly, there isn’t another soul in sight. Her name is Pomegranate, she’s gentle but you’re terrified of her. She walks slowly, always chewing. You never understand why she’s always chewing. Whispers of hay and smoke linger around you.

Why do we need to bring the cow here? Can’t she just stay in the barn?

No. Hurry up stop falling behind.

I can’t you’re walking too fast.

He laughs. Looks back at you.

I’m an old man and I’m beating you. Let’s go come on.

You do a little jog. Sulk. You hate it here. It smells funny, you keep tripping on the uneven ground. The sun continues to set, it gets chillier. Mosquitoes buzz around you, you slap them away but catch the back of your ear instead. It’s frustrating. Your arms itch from the bites and the slight sunburn from this morning’s game of counting ants on the concrete by the water hose. You learned that you’re not scared of ants. It’s funny when you trap them with your hand, and they crawl up your palm. You never hurt them, they have families and homes under the concrete, in the leaves, on that grape you left lying on the ground yesterday.

Baba?

Yes.

If I walk on the ground and I kill an ant, am I a bad person?

No baby it’s an accident, as long as you don’t do it on purpose God will forgive you.

But baba sometimes I kill mosquitoes on purpose.

Mosquitoes hurt you, I’m sure God will forgive you.

You jog next to him. He slows his pace so as to not tire you. You run ahead to the gate; he laughs and walks through. Pomegranate follows in her usual sombre mood.

You lock the gate. Put your hand in your pocket and feel the lighter. You jog after him as he flicks the cigarette butt to the side. Your shadows elongating by the second.