The Wistful Incense
The apology came twenty-three years too late, a fact that hung in the humid air of the cocoa town like the unexplained hum of a freezer that had just died, leaving only the silence of the machine’s absence to fill the room. Kwame Owusu stood in the center of the ballroom, a space that smelled of damp plaster and old cocoa butter, watching the smoke from the ancestral incense rise in a column so...
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