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The Taste of Kindness
The woman scoffed.
"You want to defend a thief?"
"She is a child," he said simply. "And what did she take? A few grains of rice?"
The woman sucked her teeth.
"That's how it starts! First rice, then meat, then money!"
The meat seller sighed, stepping forward.
"Let her go."
A tense silence. Then, with a muttered curse, the woman shoved me away.
I collapsed onto the dusty ground, my sobs still shaking me.
The crowd lost interest. One by one, they turned away, their lives more important than the fate of a nameless, dirty girl.
I wiped my face with trembling hands, my breath still jagged. I should have run. Should have disappeared before anything else happened.
But I was too weak.
Too tired.
The meat seller stood over me, arms crossed, face unreadable. His eyes, sharp and knowing, studied me for a long moment.
Then, without a word, he reached into his stall, tore a small piece of suya from the wooden board, and placed it on an old newspaper in front of me.
"Eat," he said.
I froze.
Suya.
Spiced. Roasted. The scent of pepper and smoke filled my nose, making my empty stomach clench.
I should have grabbed it—stuffed it into my mouth before he could change his mind.
But I hesitated.
Was this a trick?
Would he take it away and laugh?
Would he wait for me to eat, then call me an animal?
"Eat," he said again, his voice firm but not unkind.
My fingers trembled as I picked up the suya.
And as I took the first bite, my tears fell again.
But this time, they were silent.
The pepper burned my tongue, hot and sharp, but I did not stop chewing. The meat was soft, smoky, rich with flavors I had only dreamed of tasting.
And for the first time in my small, lonely life, I ate something given to me.
Not stolen.
Not fought for.
Given.
It was warm.
Salty.
The taste of kindness—something I had no name for.
I did not thank him.
I did not know how.
But I never forgot.
Because on that day, for the first time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I was more than the mad woman's daughter.
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