Inside, the bungalow, once anonymous, almost suburban, is a pastel hall of mirrors - the kitchen slicked with pink limewash, the tray ceilings painted gold. I pull one up, and it is thick and purple, like a vein. The culantro has been lost to the wind, but the carrots are ready to be unearthed. Emezi, hair wrapped into narrow twists, each cheekbone tattooed with two parallel black lines, scrutinizes their plot with the ambition of an architect. A few miles north, in Emezi’s garden, the mid-afternoon sun is bright, forgetful. A home was torn from its foundation, spun in the air, and flung into the middle of the street. The night before, a tornado ripped through New Orleans, razing power poles and flipping SUVs.
The day I meet Akwaeke Emezi, we are on the other side of a storm.