A man emerged from the crowd. Grabbing her little hands and slapping her gift to the ground, he began to strike her, shouting in his brutal tongue. Women from our group screamed. Several men started towards the man, scaring him into a run.
We had witnessed only a small piece of the wrath of a slave driver.
The little girl staggered in our direction. With snot and tears plastered on her face, she resumed her begging position. Since the pimp was a safe distance away, we offered her more food. We were given an adamant refusal.
She stood before me, the half-dead puppy nestled in her hair; both were crawling with lice. I gestured toward my water bottle. She shifted her eyes to the ground and shook her head. I brushed the caked up dirt from her hair. She flinched at my touch.
Angry, I began to pray. “God, what am I supposed to—”
Read the third and final part to Isabella’s story on Tuesday.