The Distant Metropolis
Kwame Yakassai stood in the hallway of the estate at ninety-six of Gallows Corner, his twelve-year-old hands wrapped around the cold iron of the banister, while the fog seeped through the plaster like a slow, wet stain. We were arguing about the price of the herbs again, the specific dried roots my father had always burned to keep the mist from eating the memory of the walls. My mother, Adjoa,...
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