The first black SUV rolled into the dusty compound like it owned the whole street. Then a second one. Then a third. People stepped out, and everyone else suddenly remembered to stand straight.
Claraara froze inside her tiny one-room apartment. Her hand was still on the thin curtain she used as a door. The room smelled like pepper and smoke from the jollof rice she had just shared.
Her black-and-white waitress uniform clung to her body from a long day at work. Sweat dotted her forehead. Her feet ached like someone had tied stones to them.
Outside, her neighbors began to shout, “Who is that? Did someone die?”
Claraara’s heart kicked hard against her chest. She wasn’t expecting anybody. Nobody visited her. Nobody even knew her like that.
The SUVs stopped. Dust rose in the air and slowly fell back down like brown powder.
Then the door of the front SUV opened.
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