She can do all that and she married a bookstore owner? Sunny wondered. But then again, these were Leopard People. A bookstore owner was probably like marrying a brain surgeon.

Orlu knocked on the gate, and a minute later a tall woman wearing a long blue skirt and a white blouse peeked out. “Good afternoon,” she said. She looked right at Sunny with such intense eyes that Sunny took a step back. Orlu nudged Sunny with his elbow.

“Good afternoon,” Sunny said. “We’re . . . I’m here to . . .”

“I know. She’s expecting you,” the woman said. “Remove your shoes and come in.”

Sunny slipped off her sandals and, upon stepping past the gate, she felt it. First in the ground beneath her feet that went from warm to cool and almost damp. Then there was the rush of humidity; it was almost as if her skin’s pores opened up and began to drink. She’d stepped onto sacred ground . . . or something. She opened her mouth and inhaled. When she looked at Orlu, he was frowning and picking his shirt from his skin.

In the center of the compound was a moderately sized white house. The ground around the house was neatly packed red dirt, tall wild bushes growing against the compound’s wall. They were led around to the back where they entered a room with wooden benches. It must have been some sort of waiting area, for several women and men, some young, some old, sat on the wooden rickety benches in various states of anxiety and misery. One woman wearing a dirty orange-yellow wrapper and matching top was crying into the shoulder of another woman dressed in a yellow blouse and jeans. A man in a sweat suit jumped up and then sat down when they walked in. Another man dressed like a rapper was talking to himself, pulling at his skinny jeans and biting his nails.

One man even bore a striking resemblance to the madman in the painting on the entrance gate’s door. He sat on the floor in the middle of the room, his long, unruly, matted hair flopped over his shoulder. He wore nothing but raggedy brown pants and a torn, dirty black T-shirt. He even had shackles on his wrists and bare feet.

“She will call you,” the woman who’d led them in said. “Sit.” Then she left.

Orlu and Sunny took a spot on the bench, squeezing between the crying woman and the mumbling man dressed like a rapper. After a few moments, Sunny realized he was actually speaking Arabic to himself.

“Glad I called and told my mom I’d be home late,” Sunny said.

“Yeah, but we could be here all night,” he said. “I’ve heard of . . .”

The door opened. “Anyanwu!” the little girl standing in the doorway called. “Who is Anyanwu?”

Sunny froze. She stood up and the little girl turned to her. The girl was about six years old, but she stood as if she belonged there and it was normal for her to order adults around. She even carried a clipboard. “Are you she?”