Homegoing

by Yaa Gyasi

leery of Southern sympathizers in the North or, worse, overly enthusiastic white Northerners who wanted him to be angrier and louder, to defend himself and his right to freedom.

She was only five then. She did not understand that things could die, despite one’s best efforts to keep them alive.

In her dreams the fire was shaped like a woman holding two babies to her heart. The

“What do you think about the book?” Mrs. Pinkston said, pointing to the copy of Lord of the Flies that dangled from Marjorie’s hands. “I like it,” Marjorie said. “But do you love it? Do you feel it inside you?”