by Ikemesit Effiong
Now, all I’m left with are ghosts. Ghosts that wake me up at night. Ghosts that ask me questions, engage me in conversations – about my life; about their lives; about why the only connection we all share – a nation that history, and our parents told us is ours
On first sight, it was shards of glass strewn all over the side of the road. They were not alone. There was blood, lots of blood. Not of the living kind, the kind that confronts you with awe and fright when the laboratory technician extracts her portion from a miserly vein on your arm. This one was dry, caked in the ground, browned by the searing brunt of the afternoon sun.
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