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The fact is: I have read the script. It says: God speaks to me
in a strange dialect; it says I would know when God’s hands graze my body.

But today I have no words to make myself feel something else other than loneliness so I am sitting on the carpet-less floor to let the cold have me, pinch feeling into my body if only to let my mouth have words for it alone.

“This girl is my daughter,” the cleric says. “She’s only five. She got married last year… so why are you not ashamed to say you’re too young to marry?”

“I, too, believe where the wound lies in this picture postcard, and others like it, is the fact of the man’s death. That, necessarily, he is dead.”

“The next day I awoke with Beyonce’s voice in my throat. She says “tough love,” an oxymoron if there ever was one. Hate is easy; love that’s what tough.”

“The hustle in cities is distinct than in township settings; there is also more to be said about how the former contributes to an upward climb on the Bloom scale.”

“These were not times when Achebe would have imagined he would relocate permanently to the US.”