The Archivist stands behind a counter, his hands folded loosely. His uniform is the same clean white as the walls, though the fabric is softer, almost luminous under the overhead lights. His hair is thin and neatly combed, his eyes the gray of unpolished steel. He knows her name before she speaks.
Then the sound died. A silence fell. And one by one, the lanterns blinked out. He turned to run but the city dissolved underneath his feet — like sand slipping from a gourd. He woke up choking on his own breath.
By Kelsey Arrington
“That neverending nurturing you need, the sea has it.” - Nayyirah Waheed
Mami Wata is a water spirit celebrated throughout Africa and the...
