Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

someone who has never had to carry anything." He thought about that sentence for the rest of the week. What grew between them grew slowly, the way things grow in margins — in early mornings before the house woke, in late nights when he came home from his father's meetings and found her still reading at the kitchen table. He brought her books he thought she might like. She corrected his taste without apology. She told him about Lagos, about her brother back home, about her mother's particular bra