It was the morning after the government imprisoned the second slew of reporters. It was not much in the news, for obvious reasons.
That morning he sold his minority share in the food stand to the chicken vendors, and mailed all of his earnings to the bank and his uncle. This paid off his debts. He also mailed an apology to his cousin, not for selling his minority share, but for miscellaneous grievances that had not received due attention. He thanked his cousin for all his tolerance in their youth, and for a lighter he’d given him for his twelfth birthday, which he still owned despite quitting smoking.
After returning from the postal office, he spent an hour at coffee with his wife, and another hour at another coffee with his mistress. With each he talked about their hobbies and what they might do for careers if the government became more violent, or if riots began. Neither believed riots were possible. He argued very little, and left each with a letter that he felt was not safe with the postal system.
This took him to lunch. He spent what was in his pockets on oil rather than food, and sat in the most popular food court until every table was full. He gave up his own table to a young couple, asking if they had cameras in their phones. When they said yes, he walked three paces from the table and doused himself in the oil. He screamed to God and a camera crew of passersby as to his reasons, then ignited himself with a nickel-plated lighter.
Riots began the next day.