Migwi Mwangi

We must have seemed so strangebrushing past traders, exorbitant umbrella hawkers, squeezing through thick processions of secondhandT-shirts, dresses, corsets held against the body in that public, most intimate fitting room of the eye’sapproximation. Across the stretch, wind thrashed the dampness of rain.On we’d go past Ambassadeur, through Accra Lane, sighting the blue-tiled Taj Mahal of …