The Distant Joke
The cocoa mills of Ado-Ekiti ground the harvest into dust, a rhythmic thunder that shakes the dust from the eaves of the boarding houses and settles in the throats of the men who walk the forty-seven of the Tannery Steps to reach the market. The fog rises from the river at dusk, a physical wall of grey that erases the horizon and makes the lamps in the windows look like trapped stars. Folake...
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