The morning sun cut through the clouds like a blade.
James tightened the straps of his old, tattered bag and walked down the narrow, littered streets of Katwe, his shoes nearly falling apart beneath him. His face still carried the bitterness of yesterday — the fake manager, the broken promise, and the sting of a fist that landed harder than he expected. But today wasn't about revenge. It was about survival.
Back home, the sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.
His mother lay on the floor, wrapped in an old kitenge, sweat soaking through her clothes. Her lips were dry, her breathing heavy. The sickness had worsened.
"Mum…" he dropped to his knees.
She opened her eyes slowly. "Don't cry, James... I'm okay," she whispered, even though she clearly wasn't.
He boiled water, prepared porridge, and wiped her face. He gave her the only remaining medicine — expired painkillers from two months ago.
Then he stood up, picked his flash disk, his notebook, zipped his bag, and looked at her one last time.
"I'm not coming back empty-handed today. I swear."James roamed the dusty streets downtown. He knocked on over 12 record labels, studio doors, and music booths.
"Sorry, we're not looking for new talent."
"You've got potential, but you don't look the part."
"You need money for studio time."
The last one stung the most.
Then, finally, a small label — run by a local producer named OJ — gave him an offer.
"We'll let you rehearse," OJ smirked. "If you clean our latrines for a week."
James stared, torn between pride and desperation.
"Deal."
He cleaned toilets, mopped filthy floors, and swept cigarette butts for two days. Then, when he asked for studio time, OJ just laughed.
"We changed our mind."
"You said—"
"Go cry to your mama."
James snapped. He grabbed OJ's collar and slammed him against the wall.
"You think we're trash, huh?"
Security burst in. James ran again. His life had become a cycle of fleeing empty-handed.
***
He walked to the park, angry and humiliated. He slumped on a wooden bench, placed his bag beside him, and buried his face in his hands.
He didn't cry. His tears had dried long ago.
A man in a navy-blue coat passed by. Expensive perfume. Golden Rolex on his wrist. Talking loudly on his phone.
James didn't think. Hunger thought for him.He rose, brushed past the man, and — slick as a whisper — unstrapped the watch. The man didn't notice until James had vanished into the crowd.
He sold the watch in Kikuubo for only 5,000 shillings. The dealer knew it was hot but took it anyway.
James didn't care.
He bought medicine, food, sugar, milk, bread. His hands shook as he handed over the bills. At least for tonight, his mother would eat.
On his way home, three boys from the nearby gang stepped out.
"Eyo! What's in the bag, street prince?" one jeered.
"Share the meal or bleed," another warned.
James looked at them. He was tired, but rage burned behind his eyes.
He didn't speak — just dropped the bag gently, clenched his fists, and stepped forward.
Three minutes later, two boys lay groaning on the ground, and the third had run.
James picked up the bag and limped home.
***
He found his mother asleep, sweating but peaceful. He fed her. She smiled weakly.
"I knew you'd find a way…"
That night, James lay on the floor beside her.