The road was divided into four lanes, separated by a deep drainage channel swollen with rushing floodwater. Across it lay a narrow wooden derelict bridge. The boy crossed it with the confidence of someone who had done it a thousand times.
He squatted, relieved himself, pulled up his faded trousers and walked back.
I stared.
“He didn’t wipe.”
A shiver crawled through me, and I buried my face in my hands, fighting the sudden urge to throw up.
A few moments later, curiosity drew my eyes back to them. By now, all the boys were awake. Only then did I notice two older figures I had somehow missed before. They looked about eighteen.
Where they had come from, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps I’d simply missed a minute of this painfully real episode unfolding before me.
Their arrival changed everything as the younger boys immediately sat upright, almost like students waiting for a lesson to begin. The older boys paced in front of them, barking orders. One after another, the younger boys reached into their pockets and handed over money.
One boy hesitated. He clutched his pocket and didn’t want to let it go. But, his punishment came instantly. One older boy slapped him across the head. The other drove a kick into his stomach. The child doubled over, sobbing. Then, they yanked him back to his feet by the ear. One stretched out his hand, demanding the money, the other held up his fingers, silently counting down. The boy reached into his pocket again but still refused to surrender whatever was inside.
Another kick. This time, they threw him to the ground and rolled him onto his stomach. His forehead slammed against the tarred road. One pinned his arms behind his back while the other searched his pockets.
My heart sank. I felt the need to shout and to tell them to leave him alone, but I couldn’t. Instead, I found myself wondering if I was the only person watching.
Cars continued to pass, pedestrians walked by but no one stopped to intervene. Were scenes like this so common that people no longer noticed? Or was this simply how the boys were forced to surrender whatever they’d made from begging or pickpocketing?
“The MD is ready to see you.” The secretary’s voice pulled me back into my own world.
I stood, stealing one last glance at the little boy still pinned to the ground like a hardened criminal before following her into an office that, for the next hour, distracted me entirely from the violence unfolding outside.
By the time my meeting ended, the boys were gone. The road looked ordinary again, only I wasn’t. I walked away carrying nothing but questions and a worry I couldn’t leave behind with them.
