It was another hot afternoon in the city, though I’m not really sure if you’d call it a city. People from Lagos or Abuja might call it a village, but …
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The pressure of Iseye’s hand against Obolo’s mouth was cold and unwavering. In the dim light of the weaving room, his eyes didn’t look like those of the travelers she …
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The dust in the market square didn’t just settle; it seemed to freeze. KON! KON! KON! The Town Crier, a man whose voice was said to be seasoned with the …
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The ground was no longer market dust. It was cold, polished stone that bit into Obolo’s knees as the King-makers dropped her like a sack of unwanted grain. She didn’t …