She pushed open the door. The smell of dust, dampness, and sickness met her. The room was nearly empty. A worn mat lay on the floor. A plastic basin sat in the corner. A few old clothes were folded beside the wall.
And on the mat, a thin woman turned her head.
Sakina’s breath stopped.
“Mama?”
Hadja Ramatou Diallo was almost unrecognizable. Her cheeks had hollowed. Her arms were frail. Her skin carried the gray tiredness of someone who had been sick for too long without care.
But her eyes knew her daughter.
“Sakina?” she whispered.
Sakina fell to her knees.
“Mama, it’s me. I came back.”
Her mother tried to smile.
“You came?”
Sakina took her cold hand and began to cry.
“Why are you here? They told me you were at home. They told me they were caring for you.”
Hadja Ramatou looked away.
“I did not want to disturb you.”
“Disturb me?” Sakina’s voice broke. “You are my mother.”
Her mother closed her eyes. “They said it was better for me to rest here. That I was difficult. That I needed quiet.”
“Who said that?”
“Ousman. Mariama. The others.”
Sakina looked around the room again, and every object became an accusation.
“And the money?” she asked. “The money I sent every month?”
Her mother’s lips trembled.
“They said it was used for me.”
Sakina wiped her tears and stood.
“You are coming with me.”
“No,” her mother whispered. “I do not want trouble.”
“The trouble already exists.”
She called a taxi and took her mother to the hospital. The nurses looked at Hadja Ramatou with concern. The doctor examined her carefully, then turned to Sakina.
“Her condition is serious,” the doctor said. “And it has been neglected for a long time.”
Sakina felt as if someone had struck her.
“She was supposed to be receiving treatment. I sent money every month.”
The doctor’s expression softened.
“Then you need to find out where that money went.”
While her mother rested, Sakina opened her transfer records. Month after month. Year after year. Payments to Ousman Barry.
