THE MAN WHO POINTED

It happened on an ordinary afternoon.

The kind of afternoon that feels identical to every other one—sun hanging too low, the air thick with heat and impatience. We were near the roadside not far from the main road, where trotro mates shouted destinations like spells and engines coughed themselves awake.

We had eaten. Not much, but enough to take the edge off hunger. Enough to make us careless.

That’s when I noticed him.

He didn’t rush. Didn’t shout. Didn’t move like most people did when they saw us. He stood still for a moment, hands on his hips, eyes resting on us with something like curiosity. Or calculation. I couldn’t tell the difference then.

I nudged my brother lightly, a silent warning. He noticed too.

We stayed calm. Calm usually worked.

The man spoke to someone else—another man, older, who nodded slowly. Money appeared. It disappeared again. Their voices were low, buried under the noise of the street, but I felt something shift in the air. The way you feel rain before it falls.

Then the man looked directly at me.

And pointed.

At first, I thought he was mistaken. People pointed all the time—at taxis, at shops, at each other. I waited for his finger to move, to land somewhere else.

It didn’t.

My brother stepped closer to me instinctively, shoulders touching mine. I felt his warmth. His certainty. We had faced worse than pointing fingers. Worse than men with opinions.

But this time was different.

Hands reached out. Not rough, not gentle—decisive. The kind of hands that had already made up their mind. I tried to move back, tried to stay close, but space opened between us suddenly, painfully.

My brother reacted immediately.

He made noise. Loud, sharp, desperate. The sound cut through the street and turned heads. For a moment, hope flared in me. Attention could save us. Chaos sometimes worked in our favor.

But not today.

Someone laughed. Someone else told him to calm down. A hand blocked him from getting closer to me. I twisted, reached, strained against the grip holding me in place.

Our eyes met.

His were wide. Confused. Betrayed.

“I’m here,” I tried to say.
“I’m still here.”

But whatever came out didn’t sound like words to them.

Coins changed hands again. Final this time. The man who had pointed nodded once, satisfied. As if he had bought exactly what he came for.

I was pulled away.

Not far—just far enough to break the rule.

Always pull.

I looked back as long as I could. As long as the street allowed me to. My brother was still there, still fighting, still calling out in a voice that cracked something open inside my chest.

Then a bus passed between us.

And when it was gone, so was he.