Saba made her way back to the hut. The oil lamp flickered, the flame dancing across Hagos’s face. Saba stepped over him and sat on her side of the blanket.

The blanket had aged. Hagos had patched up some of the holes by sewing colourful fabric onto the grey blanket. Green. Pink. Red. Yellow, the colour of the deceased woman’s dress. Every time she sat on the blanket, Saba felt the spirit of the woman as if her corpse had remained on the same blanket. Saba pressed against the jagged surface of the curved wall. The dazzling yellow dress sparkled to the stars shining through the window. The deceased threw her arms around Hagos and hugged him tighter. Death became animated on his warm body. Yellow paint melted on his skin. On a rivulet of his sweat a yellow hibiscus flower flourished.

No matter how often Saba washed the blanket and scrubbed it by the river, the memory of death appeared woven into the fabric. That night, though, as she closed her eyes, it was the bodies of Dawit and Signorina that stayed at the forefront of her mind. She wondered if the smile on Hagos’s sleeping face was ignited by that same scene. Saba blew out the lamp.

The next morning, Saba felt the sun burn as it filtered through the window. Warm air pressed against her chest. Beads of sweat trickled down her body as she rocked from side to side. Saba could smell her own skin, muddy and damp. Her mind was drawn back to when she was young, unburdened by guilt, or by society’s expectations of her. The world wasn’t confrontational then, because Saba hadn’t yet conjured up a dream. In those days, she and her mother talked and laughed. In those days, her thighs, like the rest of her body, were unscarred.

Saba opened her eyes and sat up, breathless. She was naked, her chemise lying at the end of her feet, near Hagos’s head. She stared at her own bare legs, at the scars of healed wounds. Hagos had his hand around her shin. He placed his black foot on her purple thigh.

Saba dressed and exited the hut and stood by the door staring into the empty square. She slid against the outside wall, next to the remains of the orange seedlings, which had died a long time ago. Only repulsion could grow in this place.

She wrapped her arms around herself. It wasn’t Hagos’s fault. Most of her male relatives, younger than he, were already married, had children. In comparison, Hagos had sympathy. Sweet Hagos. That was what her cousin and her friends called him. Shukor, innocent Hagos.

Saba stood up and peered through the window. Hagos hugged her nightwear in his arms as if a woman lay next to him.

The square was deserted. Saba breathed in the air that was hers alone. Before long, people began to stream onto the square. It dawned on Saba that there were no animals in this place. She longed for dogs. To stroke cats. Drink fresh milk. Have eggs. She longed to eat chicken stew, fried goat with berbere and lentils. The dust made her cough.