That night she did something she had never allowed herself to imagine.
She returned to the canal with a pot of rice cooked using the last of her oil.
The boys were there, all five now, watching her like she might disappear if they blinked.
She counted them carefully, because in her life, counting meant care.
The tall one introduced himself first. “Ibrahima.”
“Musa,” said the quiet one whose eyes never stopped moving, storing details like evidence.
“Kofi,” said the boy who smiled too easily, the kind of smile that learned early how to soften adults.
Seeku said nothing at first. His hands were black with grease from scavenged machine parts. He looked at the pot like it might be a trap.
Babakar stayed close to Kadiatu’s knee as if distance itself was dangerous.
She served them without sermons.
When they finished, she said the words that would change everything.
“You can sleep where I sleep.”
Silence fell. Even the city seemed to lean in.
Ibrahima frowned. “We don’t have money.”
Kadiatu nodded. “Neither do I.”
“Your house?” Kofi asked.
“A room,” she corrected. “One room.”
Years of abandonment had trained them to spot traps. Musa spoke carefully.
“Why?”
Kadiatu thought of a hundred answers and rejected them all.
Finally, she said the only one that was true.
“Because I can’t leave you here.”
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