I find succor in my reflection on Murtala’s face. Why can’t I confide in it? Is it not family now?
I find succor in my reflection on Murtala’s face. Why can’t I confide in it? Is it not family now?
Familiar slogans clog social media pipelines. The red river swells with braids undone.
He smokes until he sees something moving in the smoke, remembers Joy like blindness: swimming at Jazeera Beach, gorging on belonging, barwaaqo, iftiin. He remembers riding through Suuqa Bakaaraha on a motorbike, held onto by women with hair trailing behind them like black smoke. It’s raining in London again, Hassan Aden Samatar sings from a …
