The Wistful Letter
Olumide Oyelaran, thirty-four years old and the keeper of the city’s memory archives, sat in the cooling room of the precinct, his hand resting on the cold iron of a quarantine stamp that had been pressed into a crate of imported grain three days prior. The dampness in his bones was a physical fact, a slow seepage from the fog-choked streets of Lagos that no heating element could reverse, a...
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