And Saba was queuing for the weekly ration when Eyob and Tedros marched into the square carrying boxes. The son caught her eye. The cardigan tied around his neck reminded her of Jamal’s puppet actor, Dawit. The father and son stopped on a dry spot, a cracked patch fed with the sweat of those who waited under the sun for food aid. They set up their makeshift market stall.

We have coffee beans, Tedros said, opening boxes. Come closer, ladies and gentlemen, and look at what we brought you from our beloved country.

He took out a jar. Our country hasn’t forgotten you, he said. Come, taste it, let this honey dissolve the bitterness of exile in your veins.

The crowd around the improvised shop swelled. Saba watched from the side as people shoved and pushed each other to get near this piece of their country. Eyob and his son were squeezed out, their goods left unattended. Saba ducked when the businessman pulled out a handgun from his side pocket and shot into the air.

Four times.

I can still hear them ringing in my ears, said the midwife to the judge later, as the case was discussed by the committee of elders. How could he do this to us after we escaped violence to come here?

Let’s all calm down, the judge said.

No, said the athlete. You must deal with this man now before he kills someone, or we will throw him out of the camp.

Saba imagined the businessman being chased away, the change she envisaged him bringing to the camp disappearing with him. She left the gathering and headed to the businessman’s hut, even though the judge had warned them against approaching him until the court had passed its verdict.

Eyob was sitting on a chair outside the door to his hut, his eyes shut. Saba stepped closer. He had a round face with a pointy chin. Incisions on his left eyebrow reminded her of her grandmother, who had had eye problems that had to be treated this way. His short hair was greying in parts. Despite his presumed wealth, Saba found that there was a contained manner about the way he sat. Shoulders hunched, hands folded on his lap, legs pressed together. She wondered if he was still traumatized at having gone from living in a villa to a hut, from the city to a camp, from owning a business empire to being just another refugee.

The door behind the businessman opened and his son came out of the hut and stopped in the middle of a stretching movement when his eyes caught hers. Hey you. What do you want? he asked.

Saba recalled his melodic voice at the makeshift stall. His angry tone now slightly took the edge off his appeal.

Without answering him, Saba turned towards the businessman, now awake. He chased away the flies swarming around him and greeted Saba as if he was behind a counter of a shop. How may I help you, Signorina?