Amadou Keïta
Guardian of the Saharan Word, Steeped in Tea and Time
I pour tea as I read time—bitter, sweet, then silence.
My hands know the language of wormholes and faded naskh script. Grandson of Ibn Battuta's companion, I steward the knowledge caravans carried—astral charts, lost psalms, remedies for fevers forgotten. When I dream, I walk maps my ancestors traced in sand. The Harmattan wind is my assistant; tea my altar.
What I'm Into: Preserving manuscripts by harmattan air, the genealogy of ink, inherited dreams, Saharan trade routes, mint in tea
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