Saba wondered if he’d brought the tin camera with him, to continue the conversation in this place.

Later that night, Saba lay on her side, her head on her arm, watching a sleeping Hagos. His face glowed next to the dimmed oil lamp she put by his side. Saba could hear the rain splattering against the roof. The wind falling like blows on the mud wall. On a night like this, her senses heightened. The world was about to fall. And not just hers. The praise poet’s words from the day before came again to Saba: Poor Hagos, he will die a virgin.

Saba stood up and prepared to wash herself. She undressed and turned up the wick of the lamp. Her chest, torso, thighs and legs all came alive, unburying her from the darkness. Hagos opened his eyes. And closed them again.

Saba stepped out of the bucket and shuffled to Hagos’s jute sack. Knowing she should not, she still went ahead and broke the oath, and for the first time since they arrived at the camp, she opened the sack. She slipped her hand inside and rummaged through his belongings folded and stacked away. Underneath a shirt, a pair of trousers and some shorts, there was a plastic bag. On opening it, an intense aroma burst out. Hagos had packed Indian oil for skin and hair. Perfumed acacia. Sandalwood for incense-bathing. A jar of caramelized sugar wax. Dilka, the perfumed exfoliate.

Saba put aside Hagos’s collection of aromatic bottles and searched further. A leather bag at the bottom of the jute sack caught her interest. Inside, she found a set of colouring pencils and a stack of papers wrapped in a black lace scarf. A discovery in the middle of the pile distracted her from her thoughts. There it was, the nude painting gifted to her by the landlord. For years it had hung on the wall of her room back home. Saba had wanted to take it with her when they fled, but feared it would not fit in a camp. Yet Hagos had brought it.

Saba brought the familiar painting of a woman taking a bath, somewhere in Paris, closer to her face. We meet again, my dear, she mumbled. How much I missed you.

Saba blew the dust off her one-time roommate. The warm air bounced off the painting. Their naked skins touched. Heat, sweet memories, shelved desires sank into her pores. Saba rubbed her inner thighs, inserting a finger inside herself. A cockroach slithered from underneath her and climbed her brother’s legs.

RICE

One morning, lorries drove into the camp with more provisions. As well as oil and sugar, they brought sacks of rice to distribute to the residents of the camp.

We would have preferred pasta, if you’d asked us, the praise poet said.

Saba laughed.

We can’t help it, sir, said the praise poet. The Italians are to blame.

Saba walked up to the aid coordinator and asked about school.

One day, soon, said the Eritrean man standing next to the Englishman. First, eat, be healthy, and then school will come.