The Distant Wound
Chapter One Water is the only thing that lies perfectly. Folake Abubakar knew this because he had spent three years filtering the truth out of the mud in the lower terraces of the cocoa town, a place where the olive slopes were bankrupt and the air tasted of rust and wet chalk. It was 1947, and the ration office queue stretched endlessly into the grey morning, a snake of people who had...
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