The Golden Master
Act I Kojo Mensah would later recall the cold of that winter in Accra as a physical weight, pressing against his ribs like a stone in a pocket, but in the moment it was only the damp that seeped through his uniform trousers, turning the wool to a heavy, sodden cloth. He stood at the entrance of the displaced persons center on seventy-one of Corvid Lane, watching the gritters scrape the ice from...
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