You should’ve seen the hall after everyone left for Awazi’s send‑off.
One minute it was bursting with laughter and chatter, the next it was nothing but empty chairs, scattered plates, and that hush that settles when the party’s done. The drums had quit, the crowd drifted home, and honestly, it was just Kefas and me standing in the quiet.
So we got to work—no speeches, no fuss—just two worn‑out souls sweeping, stacking chairs, putting things back where they belonged. My back groaned, but the rhythm of it felt peaceful, real. As I swept—really swept—I remembered today’s freewrite prompt from 
This wasn’t just cleaning; each push of the broom cleared a bit of the night—the jokes, the hugs, the songs fading into dust. That dust wasn’t only dirt; it was crushed biscuits from when Zina danced too hard and dropped her snack, footprints where the kids had spun in circles, the last traces of a good day. Kefas and I didn’t talk much. We didn’t have to. We moved together—stack, fold, sweep, repeat. Friendship shows itself in those quiet moments, when the music’s gone and it’s just you and the mess—that’s when you see someone’s heart.
We laughed a little at the final row of chairs. Sweat stuck our shirts, my hair clung damp and wild, and a gray smudge streaked Kefas’s cheek. But there was calm in that room, like we hadn’t just cleaned a space—we’d smoothed out something inside us too. When we leaned the brooms against the wall and looked over the empty hall, I felt lighter, cleaner. It was as if we’d swept away the pride, the rush, the noise, and made room for what really matters. Funny, isn’t it, how a broom and a tired night can teach you more about life than any celebration ever could?
