Karachi.
Son, you’re going to marry a country they want to kill, one that could be simply Rwandan if it had the chance, the country of a thousand hills, which all of us, nameless and heedless of origin, have built like patient, obstinate fools. Son, we must flee the madness that invents peoples and tribes. It respects neither the country’s sons nor its daughters. It creates demons and spells, lies that become truth and rumours that are claimed as historical fact.
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