![]() ![]() My aunt nodded, satisfied, and we kept walking through the hordes of people gathered in the market until we reached the stall where we would spend the rest of the morning attempting to sell knockoff handbags. The man continued past us, mumbling to himself as he waved his hands about in gestures that only he could understand. ![]() ![]() “I see, I see,” I answered in a low hiss. My aunt was speaking loudly, and the man, tall with dust caked into his dreadlocks, was within earshot. “Look, a crazy person,” my aunt said in Twi. While there, I was walking through Kejetia Market with my aunt when she grabbed my arm and pointed. The first time, I was sent to Ghana to wait her out. For months on end, she colonized that bed like a virus, the first time when I was a child and then again when I was a graduate student. Whenever I think of my mother, I picture a queen-size bed with her lying in it, a practiced stillness filling the room. Editor’s Note: Read an interview with Yaa Gyasi about her writing process. ![]()
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