Before dawn, he is up. Sweeping the cold dew-laden concrete with his broomstick. Scratching at the pavement, sweeping the dead leaves of the fruiting lemon, avocado, and soursop trees. Sweeping the shit of the foreign dogs. Sweeping his dreams of another life away into the dust bin. Then dumping the waste into the bola to be rolled out to the front of the house for the garbage collectors to pick. This is Kwabe’s morning.

And he would be like every other houseboy if not for his voice.

“One love…” he sings as he sweeps and sweeps. “Let’s get together and…

Ekow Manuar

The stories we tell have a life of their own and they work between the realm of what is real and how we conceive that reality.

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