Let me start at the beginning, I said.

I first saw Saba at the river on our first evening in the camp when she jumped in the water after her brother to save a jerrycan that had been tugged from a woman’s hand by the current. Job done, the brother and sister returned to their hut drenched, Saba carrying a bucket full of water on her head. I stood watching them, motionless and soaked through. Though I had hesitated to dive in the river to save Saba, I had lost my balance and fallen into the water.

I rushed back to the camp when I remembered the thick stack of birr notes I had hidden in a pocket sewn inside my underpants the night before fleeing home. I would have to spread the notes all over the floor of my hut to dry them. When I arrived back at the camp, I realized I didn’t know where my hut was. Others returning from the river had their family members posted by their huts. Names were called out around me. But I had arrived at the camp alone. And I didn’t leave a sign to enable me to identify my hut from the rest. I didn’t even leave anything inside to reserve it as my own.

I opened one hut on my left and found at least five people lying on the floor close to each other, with white gabis covering their bodies. I jumped back, thinking death had already struck. But once I heard their deep breathing, I shut the door and tried the one next to it. This time, I avoided storming in. Instead, I pushed the door ajar and peered inside. An old man sat next to a woman and stared at the door with a watery secretion in his eyes. Have I woken you, Aboi? I asked.

No, my son, the old man said. Sleep is hard to come by these days.

I explained to him that I was looking for my hut. He said this was his and his wife’s, but if I couldn’t find mine, I was welcome to stay with them. There is no such thing as your hut or my hut, he said. Huts in this place belong to no one and to everyone.

I recognized the words often spoken by our fighters back home. Are you a Communist? I asked the old man.

I am sorry to disappoint you, son, but I am not educated. Compassion is something I learnt in my own village.

The couple in the adjacent hut were on their knees, praying. Heads bowed and eyes shut. They didn’t even hear me open the door. The thought of people having taken my hut infuriated me. I took this anger with me to the next one. I kicked the door with my foot. A girl changing into her nightgown scampered to cover herself. I covered my eyes and shut the door. But as I passed the small window on the side of the hut, I stole a second glance. It was Saba, the girl who had saved the jerrycan with her brother at the river. I squatted under her window, facing the deserted square. At dawn, I turned and peeked through the window. Saba raised her knees. Her hands bypassed her inner thighs and instead opened her back cheeks. I wondered whether she was circumventing a wound or responding to a desire. Her body shivered. A moan escaped her mouth.