Stay in bed, she said to me.

I froze when I saw her. It was as if she had come to me in a dream. I touched her hand, felt her warmth. Where is my mother?

I told her to take a rest, Saba said. I am here now.

I didn’t know you and my mother knew each other.

Saba smiled: We do now.

I want to get up, I said.

Saba held my arm and I could see how my hesitant steps, slow and agonizing like those of an old man, made her twitch, as if it was she who was in pain.

After faltering for a while, I said I wanted to take a piss. I had expected her to find a man to carry me to the open toilet, but instead she brought a large empty pot lying by the door and placed it at the centre of the hut. And after helping me to hold on to the pole, she turned to leave. Wait, Saba. Can you help me with my robe? I can’t bend.

I tensed my jaw, reclining my head backwards, biting my lips. My knees wobbled. Saba, I can’t understand why my mother would need to circumcise me in this place.

Traditions go with us where we go, Saba said, as she raised the hem of my wide robe, red patches at its front. She didn’t turn her face away as I expected her to. I shuffled and leaned my shoulder against hers. Long minutes passed and silence continued in the hut. Then, finally, I heard a drip on the tin. I squealed. And fell quiet again.

A warm breeze seeped inside the hut through the window. Her fluttering hair tickled my neck. Saba, please, lift my robe higher, you are hurting me.

I pushed once more. A few minutes passed and there was still nothing. I cried.

Don’t worry, Saba said, wiping my eyes. I will help you.

It was like putting my burnt hand in cool water, like taking an aspirin. I grunted the moment she placed my wounded penis in her palm. The pain turned into a strange sensation the moment she pressed it. I couldn’t stop crying. Then, in her blood-soaked hand, I noticed a trickle of white. Saba was my first love.

The judge stood up and shouted at the top of his voice to quell the commotion in the audience of the court. What kind of court is this where street boys’ words are given credence?

Quiet. Quiet! The judge finally managed to stem the noise when he threatened to expel the whole crowd and continue the hearing in private.

Silence.

Mr Jamal, the judge called.

It was my turn to give testimony. The witness chair felt warm and sent a tingling sensation up my spine. I crossed my legs. I am ready, I said.

Very well, let’s get to it then, the judge said. Please tell us everything you know about Saba. And let me remind you: anything you say will help us. We are interested in justice.