Ousman sat at the head of the table, pouring tea, looking every bit the proud patriarch.
Then the heavy iron gate rattled open.
Sakina stepped into the yard. She wasn’t alone. Behind her came Tanti Awa, two village elders, a representative from the local prefecture, and a young man in a sharp suit carrying a leather briefcase—a prosecuting attorney Sakina had hired within hours of leaving the hospital.
Ousman’s smile faltered, his teacup freezing halfway to his mouth. “Sakina? What is the meaning of this? And why is this woman here?” he spat, glaring at Tanti Awa.
“The meaning of this, Uncle, is that the theater is over,” Sakina said, her voice cutting through the morning air like glass.
She walked up to the table and slammed a heavy, thick manila folder right onto his plate, splashing hot tea across his clean white boubou.
“What is this nonsense?” Ousman demanded, scrambling to his feet, trying to maintain his authority. “You come back from America and forget how to respect your elders?!”
“Respect?” Sakina echoed, a fierce, quiet rage burning in her eyes. “Open the folder, Ousman.”
With trembling hands, the attorney stepped forward and opened it for him. Inside were eight years of meticulous documentation: Western Union and MoneyGram receipts totaling tens of thousands of dollars, every single one addressed to Ousman Diallo for “medical care.” Beneath those were the forged land deeds to her mother’s property, and finally, the official medical report from the hospital from just last night, detailing severe, long-term malnutrition and medical neglect.
