THE CRY OF INNOCENCE

Before night fully settled over the large compound, the courtyard echoed with shared joy. Under the great central mango tree, families had gathered for a moment of relaxation. It was the ritual of happy days: adults and children sat together around a small wooden table to play cards and dominoes. Bursts of laughter erupted each time a player slammed a piece down on the table, and good-natured teasing flowed freely in an atmosphere of pure camaraderie. In the midst of this effervescence, Jenny laughed heartily, surrounded by her loved ones. She savored every second of this simple happiness, forgetting for a moment the weight of her days.

Beside her, resting on a small wooden crate, was her livelihood: her large tray of treats. It was her only business, her pride. Jenny spent her days selling candies, colorful lollipops, and Chico chewing gum. Though she could neither read nor write, she earned her living by managing her small savings with remarkable skill. Every cent earned from her confections was destined for the future of her son Djovensky and her little Rose Carmelle, then three years old. During the games, the little girl would often approach the tray with a smile, and Jenny, with a tender wink, would discreetly slip a treat into her hand, drawing laughter from the other players.

Then, as the hour grew late, silence gradually settled in. The game came to an end. The laughter faded, and each family returned quietly to their own separate house, locking their doors for the night. The large courtyard became completely empty, abandoned to the mysterious shadows of the evening. From the outside, the property now offered the image of an absolute haven of peace—a block of solid dwellings where each family managed their own life away from prying eyes.

Yet, in the dimness of her small room, Jenny was not yet asleep. She busied herself silently, tidying her belongings and counting her little cashbox of sweets. She possessed a heart of infinite tenderness. Before closing her eyes, she softly approached the bed where her two treasures lay sleeping—Djovensky and Rose Carmelle. With gestures of protective gentleness, she pulled the blanket up over their shoulders to shield them from the night's chill. She stroked her little girl's hair and placed a light kiss on her forehead, then brushed her son's cheek with immense affection. She knew that come dawn, she would have to hoist her tray onto her head again and head out to sell her lollipops and Chico gum in the streets. This was her struggle, her sacrifice, and the whole family deeply respected her courage. The household drifted off to sleep in the warmth of that maternal love, unaware that these peaceful days would soon be disrupted by the need to flee the area.

At the first crow of the rooster, even before the sun's rays had pierced through the window shutters, Jenny was already on her feet. In the cool of dawn, the courtyard awakened in a half-silence, broken only by the crackling of the first charcoal fires. Without making a sound, she gently lifted her large wooden tray, which she had prepared the night before with infinite care. The transparent jars, carefully washed, gleamed in the dim light, filled to the brim with multicolored lollipops, mint candies, and brand-new boxes of Chico chewing gum. This tray was not just merchandise; it was the weight of her freedom—the tangible proof that an illiterate woman could carry her household on her own shoulders without asking anything of anyone.

Before crossing the threshold, Jenny took a long moment to gaze at her sleeping children. Djovensky breathed calmly, his arms spread out like a cross, while little Rose Carmelle, three years old, softly drooled on her printed fabric pillow—Maman. A wave of pure tenderness flooded this mother's heart. She knelt beside the bed, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her daughter's ear and adjusting the sheet over her son's chest. Even if life's harshness and the fatigue of long daily walks sometimes marked her face with a serious expression, her love for them remained an inexhaustible source of gentleness. It was for their smiles that she was about to face the stifling heat of the city, the roar of exhaust pipes, and the dust of the roads.

Balancing the heavy tray perfectly on her head, with a small rolled-up piece of cloth serving as a cushion, she opened the wooden door. Outside, the courtyard still belonged to the morning dew. At that hour, the other homes were closed, everyone still resting in their private space before the day's tumult. Jenny crossed the central space on light footsteps. The familiar creak of the large iron gate marked her entry into the outside world. In the dusty streets of the neighborhood, her soft yet firm voice began to resonate, breaking the morning silence as she offered her sweets to the first schoolchildren and workers on their way.

For hours, under a blazing sun that melted the asphalt, she walked tirelessly, refusing to sit down until her cashbox was full. The people of the neighborhood knew her and appreciated her integrity; she never cheated on prices and always had a kind word for the children counting out their small coins. Every cent collected was a promise of a better future for Djovensky and Rose Carmelle.

In the late afternoon, her legs heavy but her heart light, she made her way back to the compound. As she crossed the gate once more, she knew her family was waiting for her, respectful of her daily battle, unaware that this reassuring rhythm would soon be shattered by the echo of the first street violence.