The Faded Sutra
Act I The Niger inland delta stretched out under the first frost, a landscape of orange groves in quarantine where the water table held the weight of the village’s oldest debts. It was a place where the air smelled of damp earth and rotting fruit, a scent that clung to the clothes of anyone who walked the road out of town, past the last gas station with its flickering neon sign. Yakubu Abubakar...
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