The stream crosses the path
The path crosses the stream
Which comes first?
Pure, pure Tano, the magnificent river that floods in harmattan
It felt like it was his eulogy whenever the griot stood to sing. It has been four years already. Four years. And sitting under the Tree of God has become a familiar funeral ground. There was no familiarity on the skins of his relatives. It seemed surreal. They held hope like a grain of corn. Sometimes, it slipped through their fingers. They reluctantly said that death was taking too long a time to come for him.
The sun rose and touched the tip of the hills that surrounded Tanoso. It poured through the everyday lives of the people and it was just a reminder that life had begun. Mornings were call to prayer. Adults were seen on farm trails; their children followed them. Those of school-going age…
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