
IT WAS A warm, humid night in the lakeside city of Kisumu. Under a starless sky, the women, seated on an assortment of plastic chairs, sang hymns. Between them and what had two days ago been a grass-thatched mud hut stood a decade-old mango tree. The hut had undergone a hurried transmutation overnight, and in […]
from Brittle Paper https://ift.tt/2LQ5v29
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