He smiled, extended his hand and clasped mine firmly. “My name is Kweku,” he said, with the quiet assurance of a man entirely at ease in his own skin. The name struck me as familiar. I was certain I had heard it before, yet I could neither place the location nor summon the circumstances of our supposed acquaintance. I mentally ran through the catalogue of my Ghanaian friends and acquaintances and none was Kweku. For a fleeting moment, I wondered whether I was experiencing some peculiar déjà vu.
Remembering Kweku Amafegha and the saga of OPL 245, By Osmund Agbo
