NII COMMEY HANDWRITING

  I went to Mali expecting heat and dust, but what I found instead was rhythm. In Bamako, the very air seemed to hum with the stories of the kora, that ancient harp-lute whose strings carry the memory of empires and the laughter of griots. I was so absorbed in the swirl of music, tea, and tales that when the chance came to chase another story, to board the boat to Timbuktu, I missed it. Perhaps that is Mali’s gift: the stories are so alive where you stand, they root you to the spot. I had come as a communications specialist, charged with organising the Malian media to tell impact stories on climate change and agriculture. I expected a challenge, but found a nation whose rhythm beats through its people and their stories. My work began not in conference halls but over cups of sweet, strong tea: kinkeliba, ataya, and others. With journalists, bloggers, and editors, our discussions moved easily from our project to the Mali Empire, the hypnotic music of the kora, and the symbolism of ...

FRUIT SELLERS- THE MOTHER SERPENTS In Accra, fruits are never in season. Bananas? Perpetually out of season. From January to December, the chant is the same: “Banana is not in season.” Mangoes? “Season coming.” Or worse, “Season just passed.” Even when they rot by the roadside, collapsing into themselves, begging for vultures to audition, the story holds. Prices? That’s not about fruit. That’s about you. Your glasses thick? The price is thicker. A lace behind those lenses? Double. Your shoes too shiny? Triple. Arrive in a car? The price will sprint to the moon. Speak English and you’ll buy oranges in Euros, bananas in US dollars. Buy in bulk and you get a “dash.” The dash is never a blessing. It is the one fruit condemned by God Himself, the one that smells like a bat’s armpit, neatly tucked in your basket as a token of their affection. They smile as though they are grateful. Inside, they mutter: “Let me flatter him into bankruptcy.” These are the granddaughters of Kalabule. Per...