I raise my phone and press
record, immortalizing the ugliness. In moments the whole world will see. Murmurs
from a growing crowd. Soon there will be chanting, protests. Humid summer air
and the iron tang of blood fill my nostrils. The strobe and flash of police
lights cast shifting shadows across the pavement. They bop, groove, boogie, jive
in a Ghanian funeral dance, whisking away two souls. Together, they leave the
world. Empty bodies remain. Crumpled paper dolls on the side of the road. One
black, one blue. A single pool of crimson between them. Can’t say whose is
whose.