By the time Farida reached the city, the harmattan had erased the hills. Abuja appeared in pieces: a flyover, a row of flame trees, the pale suggestion of Aso Rock behind the dust.
She kept her mother’s letter inside the red suitcase, beneath twelve metres of indigo cloth and a wedding invitation she had no intention of answering.
The driver spoke about rain as if it were a person who had promised to visit. Farida watched the new estates multiply beyond the glass and counted the places she could no longer name.
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