Zuri drank greedily. The village began to feel smaller for her each day. She grew tired of their mud houses and of old men whose breath carried rot and authority. She felt the dresses sewn for her did not bring out her bunda the way a girl would want. Worst of all, she dreaded the certainty of her future.
The calendar flips, but my habits come with me. I carry them on my back into the new year, unmoved by my resolutions, untouched by my celebrations. They do not respond to motivation or champagne.
