A stoic person, Yaya would very much be anywhere else but at the heart of Mafoluku, listening to music he’d grown up listening to, but had never loved.
Snapping suddenly to an upright position, Yaya charged his shell-shocked attacker, who, caught ball-watching, stood helpless in the face of his foe’s barrage.
The clergyman sounded solemn. His words would certainly cut deep, spoken in a slow, grating baritone that punctuated every consonant and elaborated every vowel.
