The Door of No Return
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Synopsis
Dreams are today’s answers for tomorrow’s questions.
11-year-old Kofi Offin dreams of water. Its mysterious, immersive quality. The rich, earthy scent of the current. The clearness, its urgent whisper that beckons with promises and secrets…
Kofi has heard the call on the banks of Upper Kwanta, in the village where he lives. He loves these things above all else: his family, the fireside tales of his father’s father, a girl named Ama, and, of course, swimming. Some say he moves like a minnow, not just an ordinary boy so he’s hoping to finally prove himself in front of Ama and his friends in a swimming contest against his older, stronger cousin.
But before this can take place, a festival comes to the villages of Upper and Lower Kwanta and Kofi’s brother is chosen to represent Upper Kwanta in the wrestling contest. Encircled by cheering spectators and sounding drums, the two wrestlers from different villages kneel, ready to fight.
You are only fine, until you are not.
The match is over before it has barely begun, when the unthinkable–a sudden death–occurs…
The river does not care how grown you are.
As his world turns upside down, Kofi soon ends up in a fight for his life. What happens next will send him on a harrowing journey across land and sea, and away from everything he loves.
Release date: September 27, 2022
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Print pages: 406
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The Door of No Return
Kwame Alexander
Offin, how old was
beloved Queen Victoria
when she became heir
to the throne? Mr. Goodluck Phillip, our teacher, asks,
startling me
out of my dream.
My cousin,
who thinks he is better
than me at everything,
giggles, then shoots
his hand up fast,
but Mr. Phillip is talking
to me, staring
at me, daring
me
to answer incorrectly.
I will like Kofi Offin
to answer the question, please, he says.
Dunwõtwe, I proudly answer,
standing among
like I just bit into
the sweetest mango.
I do not see
the lightning
almost slice
the skin
from my palm,
but I do feel the scorch
of the rod
across my hand
and in my bones.
I even taste its sting
in my mouth.
Queen’s English, please, Mr. Phillip says,
as calm as rain, like
he did not just attack me
with his jagged cane.
Eighteen, I say quickly.
That is correct. The Queen was eighteen, he adds, looking at the whole class,
when her uncle died
making her the rightful heir.
I am not teaching you
to count in English for nothing.
Sorry, Mr. Goodluck Phillip, I say,
looking down at the purplish welt
burning my sable skin,
and trying not to cry
in front of everyone,
especially Ama,
and my cousin,
who now looks like
he is happily eating
my mango.
Kwaku Ansah
was sent
many, many seasons ago
to Akra
to attend
The Queen’s Missionary School
at Osu for the Propagation
of Better Education
and Improved Language,
and when he returned
he had “improved” his name to
Goodluck Kwaku Phillip,
and insisted
to the Council of Elders
that we needed
to be propagated
as well.
Mr. Phillip seldom smiles,
is lanky and tall,
wears wire-rimmed glasses
and big-collared shirts
with strange bows
around his neck,
frowns when he speaks our Twi,
insists that we call him
by his new names,
does not like
riddles or bean stew
or most things
we are used to
in our village,
and swears
that he has been anointed
to rescue us
from our old selves
and help us discover
our true ones.
Kwasi once told me
that Mr. Phillip informed
his class that
English is regularly spoken
in Akra and on the Coast, ..
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