The road to Inhaminga, in Mozambique, is populated by ghosts that wander in the dark. The bullets fell silent almost half a century ago, but I can still hear their echo. I search for revolutions whose end I don’t know. All I find along the way are words that stand the test of time.
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The road to Inhaminga, in Mozambique, is populated by ghosts that wander in the dark. The bullets fell silent almost half a century ago, but I can still hear their echo. I search for revolutions whose end I don’t know. All I find along the way are words that stand the test of time.
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