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The engine spluttered, enthusiastic as us to reach the equator. Sue and her cousin spoke softly in Lingala. Suddenly, the scent turned acrid, and Kenny Rogers fell silent. In the middle of that pock-marked highway, spread on the road like jam on toast, was a woman. The villagers soaked up the action; kids worked the crowd, selling drinks and sweets and chicken on a stick. Their parents set up crates to perch on, awaiting the main event. They clucked and fidgeted and evaporated when we asked who the lady had been travelling with. As we tossed her into the boot like a sack of potatoes, a skinny, blood-streaked youth limped towards us. Abe was reluctant to leave his boda-boda, despite its condition. To him, the ancient moped was the difference between his shack, and the street. The cousin paid a local to look after the bike, and we left for the clinic, Abe in tow. Sue drove even slower than before, trying to avoid the potholes. The other three spoke in Pidgin English. Abe fretted, anxious still about his boda-boda. He had been hired after a christening; the coach driver had seemed to swerve towards them. His breath was hot, like whiskey, Abe said. I reached behind and squeezed a clammy hand, and hummed the only gospel tune I knew. We reached the clinic, and out Abe staggered, collapsing in a heap even before we had unlocked the boot. The boot was opened and we sprang back, holding our breath as we searched for signs of life. The lady, whose name we never knew, murmured contentedly. We watched silently as she tried to cover the bare bone - exposed now that flesh was gone - as though slipping on a jacket. We squirmed as she squirmed. The street kids moved in, like pigeons. Gloves and guidance, we were assured, would be along presently. Everyone kept a safe distance, not least for fear of blood splatters, from the boot of that knackered Toyota. I sat next to her and petted those body parts that were not leaking, and whispered platitudes ‘learnt from a lifetime of daytime TV. She didn’t speak English, plus shock prevented any real understanding of her predicament. Her jerks had caused the flesh of her right arm to fall away from the bone, making her look like a five-limbed angel. But, the left side was unmarked. Her dress hung smoothly, save for a tear that exposed a flash of sturdy white pants. Even unconscious, she was aware of this indiscretion, and kept trying to cover herself. I remember thinking that I should start wearing matching underwear. She died, that night. None of us there on that dusty August afternoon were able to attend the funeral. The coach driver slept off his sore head at a friend’s, then returned to work. Abe sensed it was unsafe to collect his moped, as the dead woman’s family were still thirsty for justice. And us? After getting the car cleaned, we went to the Equator, and took glossy photos of each other straddling the centre of the Earth.