He couldn’t be more than seven. His hair was brown with dust and his lips were chapped from cold. He had no shirt on, exposing g his ribs that seemed to burst through his bruised skin. His eyes, huge like tomatoes from Jos, pricked my conscience with guilt as his scrawny fingers wrapped around my wrist. I would normally shrug my hands off, keep walking. But this one was tenacious. And there was something about his eyes. So, I handed him a hundred Naira note. He bolted without saying a word. When I got home, my gold bracelet was gone.