International Airports are so comfortingly alike in their customs and procedures, always, reassuringly, involving a passport, a queue and, invariably, a bit of a panic and, with all these elements in place, I was welcomed into Accra. Readying myself for the ‘wave of heat’ that I had been assured would hit me once I exited the terminal, I was surprised and, admittedly, a little disappointed by the muggy, sticky drizzle that darkened the unfamiliar sky; the pacifying sound of rain jarringly juxtaposed with unknown surroundings and the hum of an unfamiliar tongue. “Madam Olivia!” I heard my name called from deep within the crowd. “Madam Olivia!” I heard again, the voice full of warmth and kindness. After having met just once before in the UK, Seth had become a true friend; a fellow teacher, in the
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