![]() ![]() It was the perfect time for a story too-that hour when dusk met night and the little sunlight that remained left the sky bright but the world below dark. The steady rhythm of a djembe drum now accompanied the griot’s call, and within minutes a sizable crowd had formed beneath the baobab tree where she stood. Bone-white tattoos composed of symbols Malik could not understand swirled on every inch of her dark brown skin. ![]() The griot was a stout woman nearly a head shorter than Malik, with a face stretched wide in a tooth-baring grin. ![]() On instinct, Malik angled his body toward the storyteller’s call, his grip tightening around the satchel strap slung across his chest. The griot’s voice warbled through the scorching desert air, cutting through the donkey pens and jeweled caravans that populated the tent settlement outside the city-state of Ziran’s Western Gate. “Abraa! Abraa! Come and gather-a story is about to begin!” I have done my best to approach these topics with sensitivity, but if you feel this kind of content may be triggering, please be aware. ![]() Please note this book depicts issues of mild self-harm ideation, fantasy violence, emotional and physical abuse, anxiety and panic attacks, parent death, and animal death. And for every Black child that’s wondered ![]()
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