And Musa, who had once read discarded newspapers out loud in a cramped room, had studied law in pieces and learned the art of listening until memory became evidence.
They met with an old lawyer named Amadu Keta, a man who remembered the railway line case from thirty years ago, the one that had been buried.
“He still has power,” Amadu warned. “And patience.”
“So do we,” Musa replied.
But now patience needed a stage.
They chose one that belonged to no one important enough to shut down quietly: a government annex near the city center.
Not grand. Not hidden.
Public enough to resist erasure.
Official enough to compel attendance.
On the morning of the hearing, Kadiatu dressed slowly, movements careful. Babakar tied her scarf the way she liked it.
She didn’t search the mirror for strength.
She searched for steadiness.
Inside the annex, officials shuffled papers. A clerk called names. Seats filled.
Then Sissoko arrived, late enough to be noticed, early enough to control tone. Suit immaculate. Smile practiced.
His eyes found Kadiatu and lingered half a second too long.
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