One sleeve had been repaired with thread of a different color.
Her braids had loosened, and dust clung to the exposed skin of her feet.
The younger child rested against her.
Five years old, perhaps.
Small.
Curled into her sister’s side like a bird protecting itself from rain.
An old plastic cup sat on the pavement before them.
Almost empty.
The older girl held her sister with her left arm and occasionally extended her right hand toward passersby.
She did not plead loudly.
Did not chase anyone.
Did not perform misery.
She watched people with solemn patience.
Some walked around her without looking.
Others glanced once, then looked away.
One man dropped coins into the cup without slowing down.
Something tightened around Naomi’s chest.
She leaned toward the window.
“Kolade.”
The driver checked the mirror.
“Yes, madam?”
“Stop the car.”
He glanced toward the pavement, saw what she was looking at, and pulled carefully toward the side of the road.
Naomi opened the door before the engine had fully stopped.
The heat and noise struck her immediately.
Fuel.
Frying oil.
Spices.
Dust.
Voices.
A horn blared nearby.
She walked toward the children.
The older girl saw her coming.
She did not move.
Her arm tightened around the smaller child.
Naomi lowered herself into a crouch.
Her silk skirt touched the dusty ground.
She did not notice.
Up close, the older child looked even younger and much older at the same time.
Her face was small.
Her eyes were not.
They had the guarded stillness of someone who had already learned that adults could be kind, careless, generous, impatient, dangerous, or gone—and that a child had to determine which one quickly.
“What is your name?” Naomi asked gently.
The girl hesitated.
“Diane.”
She nodded toward the child leaning against her.
“My sister is Sandra.”
“How old are you?”
“I’m nine. She is five.”
Sandra opened her eyes.
They were large and dark.
For one moment, she stared at Naomi without fear or trust, only curiosity.
Naomi noticed that Sandra wore no shoes.
Her toenails were rimmed with dust.
Diane wore a piece of string around her neck with an old pierced coin hanging from it.
It looked worthless.
She held it as if it were sacred.
“Have you eaten today?” Naomi asked.
Diane looked toward the cup.
“Not yet.”
“Where do you live?”
“Sometimes here.”
“Sometimes a woman lets us sleep near her doorway.”
“Sometimes we find somewhere covered.”
Naomi swallowed.
“Where are your parents?”
A pause followed.
Not a confused pause.
A practiced one.
“They’re dead,” Diane said.
Her voice did not tremble.
“Our father died two years ago.”
“How?”
“A motorcycle accident.”
“And your mother?”
“Five months ago.”
“What happened?”
“She had a fever.”
The words came without tears.
Naomi understood that Diane had probably told the story too many times. Grief had been repeated until language no longer seemed connected to the original pain.
“Do you have family?”
“We had an uncle.”
“Where is he?”
“He went north a long time ago.”
“Do you know how to reach him?”
Diane shook her head.
Sandra sat up.
Her eyes moved to Naomi’s gold bracelet.
She reached out with one small finger and touched it.
Then she immediately pulled her hand back.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Naomi’s throat tightened.
“It’s all right.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Naomi took Sandra’s hand between both of hers.
It was dry and strangely cool despite the heat.
Something happened inside Naomi then.
Years later, she would try to describe it to James, to her daughters, even to herself.
It was not pity.
Pity looks down from a safe height.
This felt like recognition.
As though the scattered pieces of a life she had not understood were suddenly moving toward one another.
She looked at Diane.
The girl was watching her carefully.
Naomi stood.
“Come with me.”
Diane’s expression hardened.
“Where?”
“To get food first.”
“And then?”
“Then we will find someone who can help us safely.”
Diane did not move.
Naomi understood.
Children surviving alone did not follow adults simply because they wore clean clothing and spoke gently.
