The Pale Path
Chioma Nwosu remembered the weight of the silver long before he touched it. He stood at the edge of the harvest feast, the air heavy with roasting plantain and woodsmoke, watching the pale path flicker like a dying ember in the mud. The crowd surged around him, a sea of faces that looked through him as if he were made of glass. He was a police officer, a man of law and order, yet he felt like a...
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