“We are not strangers. We’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand. We heard there is a beautiful flower blooming in your garden. We wish to pick it—not to steal, but to water it with honor.” My mother smiled, barely holding back her tears. My grandma spoke next: “Our flower is wise. She chose her own gardener. But if you promise to treasure her, the garden is open.” There were no dry eyes after that. After the family acceptance, the libation was poured. A shallow clay bowl filled with palm wine. One elder from each side stepped forward. Kofi’s uncle spoke first, tipping the liquid into the
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