The Yard

Dear Diary,

It's good to have you out here with me today. I don't know why I never thought you might need a little sunshine too. We should do this more often.

The yard—the only respite. We shuffle out like ghosts, our eyes avoiding the watchtower. The sun kisses our faces, and for a moment, we're human again. I play chess with Musa, an old man with eyes that have seen too much. He whispers about freedom, about a world beyond these walls. I cling to his stories like a drowning man to driftwood.

The yard stretches before us—a patch of cracked earth surrounded by high walls. The guards watch from their perches, rifles slung over their shoulders. We form a ragtag procession—men with hollow cheeks, their skin stretched taut over bone. Some carry scars—souvenirs from fights in the mess hall or desperate attempts to escape. But here, in the yard, we're equals. The hierarchy of crimes dissolves; we're all inmates, all condemned.

Musa sits on the bench, his gnarled fingers moving the chess pieces with care. His opponent, Rafiki, is a wiry man with a missing tooth. They play in silence, the chessboard a battlefield of strategy and memory. Musa tells stories as he moves his rook—a tale of a distant river, its waters cool against sunburned skin. I listen, my eyes on the sky—the blue canvas beyond the barbed wire.

"You see that cloud, young one?" Musa points to a wisp of white against the azure expanse. "That's freedom. She drifts wherever she pleases, unburdened by walls or chains."

"And what about us?" I ask, my voice barely audible. "Are we destined to be shadows forever?"

Musa chuckles—a sound like rustling leaves. "We're prisoners, yes. But the mind—it's a bird that can soar even in captivity. Remember that."

The yard is our theater. Ade, the poet, recites verses under the acacia tree. His words weave through the air, touching hearts and igniting hope. He speaks of sunsets over savannas, of love songs whispered in moonlight. The guards pretend not to listen, but I've seen their eyes soften. Perhaps they, too, hunger for beauty in this desolate place.

As the sun dips low, we form a circle—a makeshift choir. Our voices rise—a chorus of broken dreams. We sing songs of home—the rhythms of distant drums, the laughter of children. The guards shift uncomfortably, their boots scuffing the ground. For a moment, we're not inmates; we're storytellers, reclaiming stolen moments.

And then the whistle blows—the signal to return. The yard empties, and we shuffle back to our cells. Musa pats my shoulder, his eyes kind. "Remember, my young friend," he says. "Freedom resides in the spaces between our breaths. Keep breathing."

Some months back, I would have had hope in those words. I don't believe them anymore.