Claraara felt like the ground moved under her feet.
Her neighbors were watching, whispering. Some were even pointing. Claraara’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. She wanted to disappear back into her room, but Martins kept talking.
“Thank you,” he said firmly. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
Claraara’s eyes went to Martins’ guards, then back to Martins’. She didn’t know what to say. She only knew one thing: Austin was not a bad man. He was just lost.
Martins continued, “My father suffers from acute memory loss. It happens once every year. When it comes, he forgets everything—his name, his home, even me.”
Claraara’s lips parted slightly.
Martins’ eyes looked tired, like he had cried about this in private many times.
“We have not found a permanent solution,” Martins said. “And when it happens, wherever he ends up, he stays there. He begs. He sleeps on the ground. And he doesn’t even know he used to be someone.”
Claraara felt something tight wrap around her heart.
She remembered Austin’s teary eyes, his shaking hands, the way he always said, “God bless you, my daughter,” like that was all he had left.
Martins looked around the dusty compound and then looked back at Claraara.
“It’s surprising,” he said slowly, “that despite your condition, you still decided to help him.”
Claraara’s face tightened.
Her condition?
She wanted to ask what he meant. But then she remembered her room—the thin mattress on the floor, the empty corner where a cupboard should be. The way her uniform was almost the only good thing she owned.
Martins continued, “You’ve been buying him jollof rice and chicken every day with your daily pay.”
Claraara swallowed hard.
How did he know it was her daily pay?
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