It was on the night of January 1 (New Year’s Day).
A family friend and I had gone to pick up what was left of the grills that a suya seller had been contracted to handle for us. While bringing down the cooler, its cover fell on the ground. Our screams must have attracted her attention to our ordeal because the next thing I heard (in Igbo) was, “Should I get water to wash it for you?”
I turned to look at whom the tiny voice belonged to.
I didn’t see her face clearly, but she looked to be a girl of about eight to 10 years old. And she had a bucket in her hands, meaning that she was still fetching water at that time.
I had already said, “Thank you, don’t worry,” but when her words echoed in my mind, I called her back.
I asked where she
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