They followed her at a distance through alleys that smelled of rot and salt, past the mosque whose loudspeakers crackled with evening prayer, up the narrow stairs to her room.
The ceiling was low. The air was thick.
The room could barely hold one adult comfortably. Five boys made it impossible.
Kadiatu spread an old mat on the floor. She used her own blanket to cover Babakar.
She sat against the wall and did not sleep, listening to unfamiliar breathing fill the space.
Fear and hope wrestled in her chest until dawn.
The landlord noticed the next morning.
“What is this?” he demanded, staring at the boys like they were termites.
“They’re with me,” Kadiatu said.
“They are trouble.”
“So is hunger,” she replied.
He warned her. The neighbors whispered. Women shook their heads and said she was foolish. Men laughed and said she was inviting disaster into her room.
Kadiatu heard all of it.
She also heard the sound of five boys eating breakfast together for the first time in who knows how long.
She saw Seeku silently fix a broken chair. She watched Musa read a discarded newspaper out loud, stumbling but determined. She felt Babakar’s hand grip hers like she was an anchor.
That morning, as she left for work, Kadiatu paused at the door.
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