Kadiatu stepped forward before she could think.
“They didn’t,” she said.
Someone shoved her aside. The boys scattered, fear sending them in different directions like birds startled from wire.
The smallest boy fell. He didn’t cry out. He curled inward, protecting himself the way beaten children do, his body remembering pain more quickly than hope.
Kadiatu stood over him.
“That’s enough,” she said again, louder.
A few people paused not because they respected her, but because her tone did not ask permission.
The moment broke. The crowd lost interest. The shopkeeper turned away, bored now that the drama had consequences.
Kadiatu helped the boy up. His arm trembled under her grip.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“Babakar,” he whispered.
She nodded like the name was something precious.
“Can you walk?”
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