The Accra flight left at seven on Sunday morning. Four hours and forty minutes. She slept for the first two and spent the last ninety minutes watching the continent assemble itself out of the window as they descended — the specific density of green that was different from England's green, the red-brown of the roads, the way the coastline arrived and then withdrew and then arrived again, the silver flash of water.
She had never been.
This was the thing she kept returning to. She had never been to the country where her mother was born, where her father had built a company from nothing, where her grandmother still tended a garden and spoke to it in the mornings. She had been in Riverton her entire life — the city that the network had chosen for her, the city that was supposed to keep her ma
