Pêro halted at the entry to the kilns, listening in on Jawoli and Kujaguo’s conversation with hopes of overhearing something about Luis.
Jawoli stopped shoveling sawdust in front of the main oven. “Working these fires will put our feet back on African soil one day. We let Jibo’s family know to sing for him with ancestors.” He resumed scooping and moving shavings. “I long to laugh with our little brothers and sisters, to watch the children run through millet mounds and drink water from the Baobab trees.”
Pêro’s beating heart hit his chest like a sudden torrent of pelting rain. He prayed silently, recalling Kujaguo, Jawoli and Jibo’s story of a*******n from their village in a night raid, being forced across a sea of sand like tethered goats. Sold at market and stacked like logs at the bott
