The Golden Cellar
Could a name be stolen if the one who bore it had already forgotten its weight? Akosua Abubakar stood in the doorway of the boiler room, her fingers stained with the black grease of the steam pipes that ran like arteries through the walls of the boarding house, listening to the hum of the refrigerator in the empty shop below, a low, electric drone that vibrated against her molars. She was...
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