The Wistful Ashes
Chapter One Babatunde Mensah had already lost the war before the first shot was fired, a fact he would only understand when the dust settled. He stood in the hallway of his boarding house, a narrow corridor lined with wet coats and rusted bicycles that squeaked against the floorboards. The air smelled of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of the February false spring outside. He was thirty...
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