No strength to work.
No one to turn to.
Still, Sarah sat up slowly, carefully. Her vision swam, her legs ached, but her spirit, though battered, refused to completely give up.
She looked around at the others under the bridge.
A group of teenage boys were playing cards, laughing and trading crude jokes. Two girls with heavy makeup were brushing their wigs.
Life moved on around her—loud, reckless, youthful.
But at sixty, Sarah had no such luxury.
She stood, adjusted her wrapper, and began walking.
It was not a destination she had planned for. Her feet simply moved on their own through the busy side streets of Enugu, past motorcyclists, food stalls, and schoolchildren in uniform.
She walked like a ghost among the living.
A man bumped into her and shouted, “Mama, watch where you’re going!”
She nodded weakly and kept going.
Minutes passed, then hours.
Her stomach howled.
The dizziness returned.
Her eyes blinked slowly like shutters struggling to stay open.
And then she saw it.
The large dump site behind New Life Market.
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