[mis]Guided.

Bright red hues announced the drowsy sky.
“I need your help, father” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “I have lost my way.”
Chancing a timid move toward the solemn white-haired man who sat waiting on the platform,
the ensuing minutes of conversation shone a light on Dede Dramani’s deep discomfiture;
this old man’s perspective offering a lifeline that would bring the drowning boy up for air,
and point him towards promising paths to pursue.
So it happened that when a screeching train finally rolled into the station,
the wiry Dagbani boy felt a dead weight had lifted off his chest.
And Dede realised—
watching from the platform as the train trudged onwards,
ferrying this wise old stranger and many limp workers all the way home—
that the encounter had left him a lighter load to shoulder,
a new lease on life,
and still no closer to finding directions he sought to the community post office
of this strange, new town.