The men began lowering Chief Oladipo into the grave.
The word tore out of Mustafa before he could stop it.
“Stop!”
The forest went silent.
The men froze.
Slowly, they turned.
Mustafa stood exposed in the rain, thin, shaking, terrified.
For a moment, no one moved.
Then the taller man narrowed his eyes.
“Who is that?”
The man with the shovel whispered, “A street boy.”
Mustafa stepped back.
The taller man’s expression shifted from confusion to amusement.
“Well,” he said slowly, “this is unfortunate.”
“What do we do?” the other man asked.
The taller man did not take his eyes off Mustafa.
“We can’t let him leave.”
Mustafa’s blood ran cold.
Run.
This time his body obeyed.
He turned and bolted through the forest.
Branches whipped his face. Mud splashed beneath his feet. His lungs burned, his legs weak from hunger, but he ran with everything he had.
Behind him came shouts.
“Catch him!”
Footsteps followed, heavy and fast.
Mustafa stumbled, pain shooting through his ankle, but he pushed forward. He did not know where he was going. He only knew he had to escape.
The trees began to thin. Faint light flickered ahead.
The road.
Mustafa burst from the forest and stumbled onto the empty roadside, gasping, shaking, soaked to the bone.
Behind him, the forest loomed.
And somewhere inside it, two men were coming.
He ran down the road, waving his arms when headlights appeared.
“Stop! Please stop!”
A car slowed. Hope bloomed in his chest.
The window rolled down halfway. A man in a clean shirt glared at him.
“What is wrong with you? Are you mad?”
“They’re killing someone!” Mustafa gasped, pointing back at the forest. “They buried him. He’s still alive. Please, you have to help!”
The man stared at him, then his face hardened.
“Get out of the road. Go beg somewhere else.”
“I’m not lying!” Mustafa cried. “Please!”
“You street kids will say anything for money.”
The window rolled up. The car drove away.
Mustafa stood frozen in the rain, watching the red lights disappear.
Hope vanished.
