By James Freitas
The glass sliced his ashy heel. Ametefe’s toes were scarred from barefoot years. He knew pain well.
Funerary songs softened. He trudged toward a painted sign. His hand rested on red brushstrokes.
“Efema Kwasi 1967—2015.”
His eyes closed. A woman emerged, veiled in white, rushing closer with outstretched hands.
Ametefe’s eyes opened to a floating silhouette.
“Dzó me! Go away!”
A sheet of silence fell. Everything was still, save the sway of a noose from a baobab tree.
“E nyon nyon ge.”
“It shall be well?”
He looked up to the fourteen coils, caressing the baobab.
“E nyon nyon ge.”
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