The morning Helin walked out to die, she dressed carelessly in a loose T-shirt and jeans. She did not brush her hair. The room she shared with three others in a Beirut tenement stank of sweat. Her daughter Lulu sang on the bed, small hands waving, weaving stories.

The Price You See Reflects the Poor Quality of the Item and Your Lack of Desire for It
Africa’s Future Has No Space for Stupid Black Men