Who Is Mad?

Water slid over his shoulders in thin, warm lines, and the ground under his feet held the day’s heat like a stubborn pot. Behind the low fence, bamboo poles leaned together and the raffia palm front hung in ragged strands that clung to the breeze. Beyond it, the yard opened into the village-voices, goats shifting in the dust, the dull thump of someone hammering a plank somewhere far off. He could hear the hammer even while the tap of water on his back kept time, and he breathed out, letting the soap lather work at his skin.

He had come to the outdoor bath just to rinse away the road dust, to feel clean before the evening. His towel was not meant to be a problem. He had hung it neatly on the bamboo rail, folded once, corners tucked, where it would dry while he washed. That was all. No one in the compound would touch it; people here knew the value of small things. He scrubbed his arms, rinsed his hands, and leaned forward to drink the last drops from his palms, watching the water run down his wrists and disappear into the soil.

Then the sound came-dry cloth snapping in the air, followed by a quick scrape, like someone dragging a stick across the fence. The voices outside shifted in pitch. He paused with his hand half-raised, listening. The raffia palm front stirred though there was no strong wind.

“Hey!” he called, not sure where the trouble had started, but his voice pulled the yard’s attention toward him.

A figure was already moving along the fence line, too quick for a normal person. He saw the white of cloth flash between bamboo slats, saw a hand grab, saw the towel lift as if it had been waiting to be taken. The man’s eyes widened, and his body reacted before his mind caught up-his fingers went searching for the cloth that was no longer where he left it.

“Woi! My towel!” he shouted, forcing his voice through the sudden dryness in his throat.

The figure didn’t answer. He only turned his head slightly, as if hearing but refusing to understand, and then he broke away from the bath area with the towel held high in one arm. The fence made a narrow alley of sound-the towel’s frayed edge brushed bamboo, and the raffia strands whispered as he passed. The man’s heart beat hard against his ribs, and he felt his skin go cold even with water still sliding down him.

He tried to move carefully at first, as if care could undo what had happened. His foot slipped on wet ground. Water splashed, darkening his wrapper at the waist. He grabbed the fence post with one hand, yanked himself upright, and in the next breath he made a decision that was not gentle.

He burst out from behind the low bamboo and raffia like a startled fish, water streaming from his hair, his voice cracking with urgency. The yard hit him full-hot sun on his bare back, dust rising where people had shifted, the smell of earth and old smoke hanging in the air. His hands were empty. The towel was not.

“Give it back!” he cried, and he ran.

His feet slapped the ground, and the towel thief ran too, faster than the man expected. The madman-everyone would later call him that, though no one knew his name-held the towel without hiding it, as if showing it was part of his trouble. He moved with a lopsided steadiness, legs pumping, head jerking now and then toward the village paths, searching for a way to vanish.

“Stop!” the man called, breath turning ragged. “That one is mine!”

People began to gather without anyone saying so. A woman at the water pot stopped mid-step. Two children who had been chasing each other skidded to a halt, their laughter cutting off like a rope snapped. Men leaned forward from doorways. The yard filled with eyes, and those eyes followed the towel and the bare runner, tracking the distance between them like a game no one had agreed to play.

“Ah-ah! You! Where are you taking it?” someone shouted, but the voice came from behind, too slow to be useful.

The man did not slow. His wet skin cooled in patches where the breeze touched him. Water splattered each time his foot struck a stone. His wrapper-his bath cloth-had slipped down at the waist and then clung, heavy and damp, making him feel half exposed and fully furious. He reached the edge of the bath fence, and the madman turned a corner of the yard, heading toward the narrow path that ran between compounds.

The madman did not heed him. The towel thief’s face stayed turned away, jaw set, eyes fixed on where his feet were going. Once, as he ran, the towel’s edge slapped against his thigh, and he adjusted his grip like a man carrying something precious. He did not look back to see who was chasing him.

“Please!” the man shouted, and the word came out before he could control it. “Please, that towel-don’t-”

The madman only quickened.

The obstacle wasn’t only the madman’s speed. The path ahead narrowed between fences. There were basins left out to dry, a broken stool, a pile of firewood stacked too tight. The man flinched as he saw a low log lying across the footway....