February 10, 2020. This was the final entry on the page. A few days ago, I attended a party with some old friends. I had

March 14, 1957. The handwriting in the ledger had changed. It was no longer the steady, precise script of an observant clerk, but the frantic,

The relentless Guinean rain had finally stopped, leaving a heavy, suffocating humidity in the small cinderblock house. Kwesi and Kofi Jean-Luc sat at the splintered

When the worst of the tears had subsided and the shock had settled into a profound, hollow exhaustion, Kwesi spoke again. His voice carried the

Next to the warehouse was the house Kwesi was looking for. It had a small, walled compound that looked as though it were slowly sinking

The journey out of the Guinean wilderness was a true test of human endurance. For over twenty agonising hours, Kwesi, the elderly merchant, the mother

A heavy, mud-caked boot struck Kwesi in the ribs, knocking him sideways into the thick mire. “You! Empty your pockets!” the bandit leader barked. Kwesi

Lola was not so much a town as it was a muddy scar carved into the edge of the immense, suffocating Guinean rainforest. The air

Patrice swept the thick stack of CFA notes into the deep pockets of his worn woollen sweater. His cloudy amber eye gleamed with satisfaction. “Two

He looked at the torn, bloody ropes still clinging to his wrists. The name “Nana Kwame Mensah” was supposed to be a flawless legal fiction.