Bolga Handwoven Laundry Baskets

March 12 – Accra, GhanaHumidity: Operatic. Air: Fried plantain and possibility. The children ran barefoot across Makola Market like joy had legs. A woman with arms like river gods held up a perfect pyramid of tomatoes, daring gravity to interrupt her. And beside her stall, in a humble pile, sat the Bolga baskets—quiet, handwoven things that do not shout for attention, but know their purpose and hold it with pride. I picked one up. Round, firm, stubborn in its structure. No different from the one my grandmother had. Elephant grass and leather handle, woven with the logic of patient hands. Each line a story. Each knot a decision made and lived with. And I thought: this is what I need in my mind. Everyone I meet here is smiling. Here they don't know me. At home, everyone wants something. An endorsement. A contract. A war. A pardon. They come cloaked in flattery, but they all carry scissors. I am the rope they want to cut. If I were a lesser man, I could act. Swift vengeance. Clean endings