A young man from Kano stood, addressing Amastan in Hausa. His voice was bitter, taut with rage. Anna caught a few words – Turare, Nasara – perfume, Christian. Another woman added something in Arabic, gesturing at Anna’s pale face.
That night, they camped by a crescent oasis under silent stars. The freed captives gathered around flickering fires, clutching bowls of millet and goat stew. Their eyes flicked towards Anna with suspicion, fear, and fragile hope.