Galway Glow
"Literary festival organizer Nneka brings authors to Galway—but the thick Ghanaian novelist headlining this year writes a new chapter between them that won't appear in any book."
Ama Darkwah's novels were legendary.
Her presence was even more striking—thick, confident, voice that commanded rooms.
"Your festival is impressive," she told Nneka.
"Not as impressive as your work."
"Flattery?" That smile held danger. "Or do you mean it?"
"I've read everything you've written. I mean every word."
The author reception ended early.
Just them in the green room, books between them like promises.
"I write about desire," Ama said. "But I rarely experience it."
"Never?"
"Rarely." She moved closer. "Until now."
The novelist's research was hands-on.
She explored Nneka like a character to be understood—every curve, every reaction catalogued for future reference.
"This will go in a book," Ama admitted.
"Should I be worried?"
"You should be flattered."
Galway's literary scene gained a new patron.
Ama returned every year. For the festival. For Nneka.
"Best chapter I ever wrote," she'd say.
"Am I in it?"
"You are it."
Some stories, they learned, wrote themselves.
This one was still being written.