Ariya knew that poverty was a ghost that took different forms. Sometimes, it was a tear in a dress that Mama could not fix. Other times, it was Papa, drunk, stumbling in the dark and groping at her.

Ariya knew what rage felt like. Sometimes, it was Aunty Abebi screaming hell at Papa. Other times, it was the people on the street turning away from Mama and her, staring anywhere but at them.
Most times, it was the look in the eyes of the men – like they could have her too. If her father had, who would not dare to?

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