It is an especially humid day. The air is stifling and rivulets of sweat run down my back and stain my white shirt. “Ma,” I say. “Why don’t we open a window? This heat is killing me.” My mother is lying very still on the floor, lethargic. She is sweating but she does not answer me… [4mins]

In collaboration with Bahati Books.

I never wanted to be a writer; I just had stories I needed to tell. Sefi Atta