Blood in the Hands of a god

Abstract

December 4, 1992
Dust, and more dust. Romoke leaned on the wall, feeling uncomfortable. It was late, and the chill of harmattan was snaking up her skin. Had Deolu forgotten they were to meet? She
thought.

It was not likely as he rarely came late to the rendezvous, especially not when he knew she
would be traveling. For some minutes, she watched the sunset. The purpling sky had spread
itself in front of her like a flamboyant art piece.