The boys behind Samhiya sniggered.

The look on Hagos’s face didn’t change. Saba had long understood his silence was like a pair of dark glasses on a blind man. But she hoped he would at least respond to his admirer with an expression.

Let her see your even more beautiful smile, Saba mumbled at him.

Would you teach me, please? Samhiya asked Hagos.

Saba’s grin widened until it pierced the dimples on her cheeks. A chance of affection had arrived in Hagos’s life, she thought. Finally.

Hagos’s eyes, though, were fixed on his sister. Saba reached with her hand to his face as if to turn him towards Samhiya. She stopped. Yes, Saba said to Samhiya. Hagos will be happy to teach you to swim.

Samhiya rolled her head back and asked Saba, Why can’t he talk for himself? Did I make him speechless?

He is mute, said one of the boys behind Samhiya.

Silence.

Saba abhorred those moments when girls became quiet, perhaps pondering life with a handsome but disabled man.

I have to go, said Samhiya, planting a kiss on Saba’s cheek. Ciao bella.

Saba brushed past Hagos and barged inside the hut. Her brother followed her, closing the door on those left outside.

THE EXPIRED SARDINES

A convoy of lorries, led by a Land Rover, unzipped the crowd as it rumbled into the square. Oil dripped, turning the ground darker in parts. Saba squinted against the sun and was only able to make out the sight of men in jellabiyas huddled together on top of brown jute sacks in the back of the lorries. An eagle flew above them, its black wings spread against the blue sky. The Land Rover and the lorries stopped opposite three huts with blue doors grouped around a low cement building.

Saba advanced towards the newcomers with Zahra and her grandmother. Two passengers came out from the Land Rover, a white man and a light-skinned Habesha-looking man. They entered one of the three huts making up the aid centre and shut the door.

Let us through. We need to talk to the aid workers.

Saba turned behind her. Three men with white hair, gabis wrapped around their shoulders, pressed through the throng. I am a senior judge in Asmara high court, said one of the men to the implacable crowd, he was tall with trimmed beard and wide eyes.

Oh yeah, said the athlete, and I am the mayor of Asmara.

The so-called judge smiled. It is good to see we never lose our sense of humour, he said. You are right: anyone in a camp could claim to have been anything back home. When the dergue evicted me, they burnt all my documents. But I carry my history in my blood.

The crowd applauded.

The judge – Saba believed him – nodded at the crowd, and said, I don’t have any proof. God, the greatest, is my witness, but I can also debate law and order as I studied it during the British rule of our country.