A woman called out: Anyone with children’s clothing? I have adult clothes for my boy.

Saba, though, held on to a brown T-shirt and a long pair of mauve trousers that fell in front of her, and looked for Hagos among the crowd in search of something that fitted. She found him with a girl’s dress. He was about to leave when Saba caught his hand. Wait, Hagos, she said. I’ll help you exchange your dress for men’s clothes.

Hagos looked down, and Saba felt she understood why.

Back in their hut, Saba put the clothes inside her jute sack, instead preferring her old black dress. The British newspaper, though, stayed in her mind.

When she arrived at the Khwaja’s, he had fallen asleep in a chair outside his hut, the British newspaper in his lap. Mosquitoes buzzed by the oil lamp he had placed on a tree trunk table next to him.

The Khwaja opened his eyes and stretched out his arms.

The English call this a power nap. An apt description, indeed. Take a seat, my dear, he said to Saba.

He pointed to a large expired sardine box turned upside down.

Excusing himself, the Khwaja returned to his reading. He rocked in his chair, laughing, once in a while nodding in agreement with the writer of the piece: That’s right. That’s right.

You have more energy than I do, said Saba. I feel as expired as this box you make me sit on.

The Khwaja laughed. Saba, you have a dry sense of humour. You would get along well with these people. He tapped faces on the paper with the back of his hand.

The pages ruffled in the breeze. Saba stretched her neck and noticed a picture of a girl in a black gown, beaming under a square cap.

She has become a doctor, the Khwaja said. But the article is about her future. As a woman, she will earn a lot less than a male doctor.

Where did she study? Saba asked.

Saba, haven’t you heard what I said? The same education, but lower earnings. That’s scandalous. And they call themselves civilized.

The smiling girl on the page creased under his enraged fist, falling like a judge’s gavel. The girl now appeared to share the Khwaja’s anger. Her face frowned. Saba took the newspaper and ironed out the Khwaja’s frustrations from the graduate’s face.

The graduate and Saba exchanged a quick glance under the moonlight of the camp. One day, I want to go to her university, Saba said. Can you teach me English?

The Khwaja looked up at Saba.

She wasn’t smiling.

The morning sun burned on her back as Saba took her pail and headed to the river. The priest read from his book. Worshippers closed their eyes, as if they were searching for the god inside them. Outside the camp, Saba encountered a group of men who parted and stood on each side of the narrow path to let her pass.

The walls of men shuffled towards each other. Her hips bounced against their bodies, in a swing she was unaccustomed to. Saba is transformed into a dancing beauty, one of the men said, laughing.