Jan 11, 2020 | Non-Fiction, Travel |
In her hut in Poto-Poto, the poor quarter of Brazzaville, the feticheuse, smiling at us, knelt on the floor, drew out a handful of cowrie shells from the cloth bag at her waist, and cast them across the raffia mat. Lary Shaffer and I, despite ourselves, leaned forward...
