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