I am fed with a mixture of camel milk and honey. The Gabra women spoon the mixture into my mouth as if I were a baby. They run their hands, as soft and as pliant as mahamri dough, over my stomach so that when I finally eat solid food, it sits easily in my stomach.
She considers sacrificing her pinky finger for even the idea of the memory to leave her, but as she holds the knife a few inches from her hand, you convince her to be patient and leave her fingers intact.
I caught sight of my lawyer, Sam. Court appointed. Suit three sizes too big, surrounded by a mess of papers and folders. Then I heard it. Heels like exclamation points on the courtroom floor and a voice that boomed throughout the courtroom.