Hello and thank you for passing by here.
I'm sitting at an oval table with leaves that fold downward, many scratches, the seams between the panels have opened a little but the wood is still a living grainy thing. It's a table I bought from a man named Djugale Magala, in Nima district in Accra, maybe in 1999 or the year 2000. It was tucked away, a colonial valueless thing for this man from Burkina Faso. Djugale and I used to sit there above the open gutter, speaking untidy French. He had a silver tooth. One morning, Djugale came to my house with three young men in robes, and these men waited for him to be seated while he pushed the floor with his staff. It's a very long story, the story of this table.
Perhaps I will tell you a little, as we go along.
If you're here I guess you are a lover of stories. You want to know what happened, what will happen next. You get a thrill from expectation, surprise, uncomfortable familiarity. And perhaps you're nosey, you remember things others forget.
If you have pledged, or are able to pledge for this collection of stories, endless, sincere thanks.
We'll get to the table.
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