On Wilson Avenue, the Nigerian women spill out of church in a galaxy of color, their crisp paper headdresses like petals, like boats. A small boy emerges from his mother’s skirts to stare at himself in the sun-bright plate glass window. He wears a winding cloth of brown fabric around his head, and his narrow white robe sways around his ankles as he begins to dance, watching his own reflection. He spins around, arms over his head, clapping, and gives himself a two-handed pistol salute, thumbs up.
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