Now Here: Kakuma

A man, small, deformed, with a bone-smooth stick tucked under one arm, military-fashion, ducks into the hut outside which hangs the sign House of Tea and stands for a moment, sun-blind. He takes his bearings and makes for a stool fashioned from a stolen hubcap and covered with grass-stuffed cloth for comfort. Light slices into the shelter through gaps in the thatch, exposing a wedge of dancing dust. The man holds up a gnarled thumb and forefinger and a…

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