She shone the torch here over there here again over there again. A grasshopper landed on the grass in front of her. The leaf quivered when something slithered in the grass, Saba leapt to her feet and wet her underwear as she scampered away.

THE MIDWIFE

The confrontation began when a man arrived in the square holding a bag of miswak sticks and declared his price for each teeth-cleaning twig.

Can’t you see people are standing in front of the aid centre? a mother with a child said.

This is business, the man said. I am not a charity.

Don’t be callous, said a woman to the seller. I saw you climbing the peelu tree deep in the bush.

Men surrounded the miswak seller, telling him the twigs belonged to everyone in the camp.

A man snatched the seller’s bag. The struggle ensued. The judge arrived. A trial was called at the judge’s hut.

Saba didn’t attend the trial but the verdict reached her: No one owns anything in the camp, the judge had said after listening to the seller and residents of the camp. We all share everything.

We share everything, Saba repeated to herself as she sat next to Hagos while he lit the three-stone stove over the ground. He placed a pot with water on the fire. Saba saw the bag full of flour by his foot. He opened a jar of tesmi. It was empty. Hagos furrowed his eyebrows. Saba understood he was making ga’at porridge but that he didn’t have ghee. Telling Hagos to wait, Saba took a bag of lentils from their jute sack and ran to Zahra’s hut, returning soon with the ghee she had swapped for the lentils.

Four girls carrying buckets stood nearby on their way home from the river. They laughed as Hagos stirred flour into the boiling water to make the porridge. Curse on you, one of the girls said to Saba. Why are you making him cook?

Saba waved them off with her hand. The girls walked away, now and then turning their heads back to stare at Saba. Hagos, unperturbed, scooped some of the porridge onto a plate, adding ghee and chilli.

Saba watched as a queue formed outside the aid centre. Aid workers with long sticks kept order. Here, adults were disciplined too. An eagle flew over the camp and landed on the thatched roof of the aid centre. An old man waiting in the queue aimed his stick at it. We have nothing. Go away. Go.

Saba gasped as the large bird sailed over the old man’s head, its claws gliding past his white turban, and snatched a piece of sardine from a young girl feeding her younger brother.

As Saba joined the queue, she noticed men with naked wrists. Watches probably broken, she thought, or batteries dead or saved for a place where time mattered, when one often heard I don’t have the time or I will be there pronto or what time do you call this? Batteries saved for when there was an office to go to, a school to attend, a doctor to visit, a garage to open, a police station to manage. Saba wondered how something you had in abundance, relative to others, lost meaning. Time faded into insignificance.