I knew I was exhausted. That part was never unclear.
What was implied, over and over again, was that this exhaustion was normal. That this is just what women do. We work. We take care of people. We hold things together. We keep going. There’s no real space for rest, and certainly no space for our dreams.
The smell of woodsmoke drifts through an early morning market in Accra. Tomatoes blush in woven baskets, peppers glisten like rubies, and a woman in a white lace dress pauses her work to greet an elder passing by. In that shared breath resides memory. It is in the smoke, in the hum of conversation, and in the hands that shape clay pots and pound cassava that inventions are born. We seldom think of creativity as a communal act, yet in African and diasporic worlds it emerges from shared labor and ancestral rhythm. To remember the names of our inventors is to remember who we are.
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