And there, on the concrete pavement where she’d been left like discarded furniture, they knelt.
“Mama Kadiatu,” one whispered, his composure cracking on the second syllable. “We’re here.”
Kadiatu stared at them like the morning was playing a trick.
Time had carved new lines into their faces, broadened shoulders, thickened hands. But she knew their eyes. She knew the way each of them stood as if expecting the world to strike. She knew the shape of their silence, the kind that comes from years of learning to survive without asking.
“Ibrahima,” she said, voice thin with disbelief.
His throat worked like he had to swallow something sharp. “Yes, Mama.”
“Kofi.” Her eyes flicked.
He nodded once, almost like a promise. “I’m here.”
“Seeku,” she breathed.
He didn’t smile. He only looked at her as if she were a machine that had once saved his life and he still couldn’t believe it existed.
“Musa.”
Musa’s gaze held hers steady, the way it always did when he was listening.
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