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faded. The front passenger’s necklace with John Evans Fifi Atta
Mills’ face on it flapped in the wind, a one-week salute.
Outside of the city, traffic was backed up several miles.
Rows and rows of cars, raising flags of red to their beloved
leader. A funeral of its own sort. The tro-tro cut through dusty
unpaved parking lots and grassy fields, bumping away from the
traffic and congestion, the procession of cars still forming a long
line into the distance. A horizon of memory and grief speckled
with red.

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