Taiye Selasi – Ghana Must Go (Current Read Excerpt)

The washing, as by sedulous scrub nurse of all ugliness of grief’s many faces.
Faces Sai knew.
To him, who could name grief each one of her faces, the logic was familiar from a warmer third world, where the boy who tails his mother freshly bodied from labor (fruitless labor) to the edge of an ocean at dawn – who sees her place the little corpse like a less lucky Moses all wrapped up in palm frond, in froth then walk away, but who never hears her mention it, ever, not once – learns that “loss” is a notion. No more than a thought. Which one forms or doesn’t with words. Such that one cannot lose, nor ever say he has lost, what he does not permit to exist in his mind.
Even then, at twenty-four, a new father and still a child, a newly motherless child, Kweku knew that.

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