Barely a few metres away under a pier, a small group of children scampered like rodents, forced down the evolutionary ladder by poverty and cruel government policies. One of them, a skinny girl with sad eyes, dashed past the others who were busy fighting over abandoned toys scattered among the filth. The tide was low; the water often washed up treasures. She had found a small bun still in its plastic wrapper and was running home to give it to her neighbour, Sarita.
Sarita was alone; she was always alone. Sarita didn’t go to school; she had heard horror stories from the neighbours’ children about the confined space, the harsh discipline, the fact that the teachers yelled at them in Kiyamalasi, a language they did not speak at home. She had wept and howled when her mother suggested she atte
