In Primary Four, our Ga teacher, Mr. Ayibontey, had told us, “March is the sunniest month of the year.” He wrote it carefully in Ga on the blackboard—O-tso-ki-ri-ki-ri—and said it was so-called because “the sun burnt with a furious blast.” March, to me, was heat, unapologetic and alive. But the evening I became a soothsayer, there had been a downpour.
