How could she reach him?
Julie searched the wallet again and found the business card. There was a name: James Kuadio. And a phone number.
Julie had no phone. Neither did her mother.
So she did what street children do when they need something.
She went to the attiéké seller at the corner—a large woman everyone called Aunty Awa—and asked to borrow her phone.
Aunty Awa looked at her with suspicion. “Why do you want to call, child?”
“It’s very important, Aunty. It’s for my mom.”
Aunty Awa knew Mireille. She knew she was sick. She sighed and handed over the old phone.
Julie dialed with trembling fingers.
One ring. Two rings. Three rings.
Then a voice.
“Hello.”
A deep, confident man’s voice.
“Hello?” Julie answered softly.
“I’m the one who took your wallet.”
Silence.
A long silence.
Then the voice returned—slower, more controlled.
“Where are you?”
Julie gave him the address.
“Don’t move. I’m coming,” James said.
Fifteen minutes later, a black car pulled up.
James stepped out, walked toward Julie, and crouched down to her height.
Julie met his eyes directly.
She wasn’t afraid.
She had too many questions for fear.
She pulled the wallet from her bag and handed it back.
“Here is your wallet.”
James opened it, checked the photo—and the moment he saw Mireille’s face, something shifted in his expression.
Pain flickered in his eyes.
“Why did you steal my wallet?” he asked.
“My mom is sick,” Julie replied. “Very sick. We don’t have money for the hospital.”
Then she asked:
“Sir… why do you have my mom’s photo?”
James felt his heart stop.
He looked at her again, more carefully.
Her eyes. Her face.
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