Many Congolese people attribute the symptoms of psychiatric disorders to spiritual problems or black magic. —Anna Inghram for BORGEN MAGAZINE So I ask her after she flies back inside the room through the window, was the flower worth the use of your wings? She says that she needed the wind to beat the sickle at a race. The pastor clinches his bible, and a bullet falls from his forehead. I hand him a piece of tissue. Asiya tells me that after the violence of the previous years—at night, a bleating goat might as well be a machine gun. I ask, do you think the war has something to do with your wings? She asks me whether I knew what the texture inside of the universe is… a blue pulp with stretch marks of red and green that flash like lightning. Inside it is a vast meadow draped in dandelions. the sun, the moon, and the stars are yellow flowers, white seeds, and dispersing seeds. I can also see it all if I closed my eyes hard enough. I don’t see it, I say. Her eyes are fixed on me and she says, yet another man who won't allow me to be anything other than a rose. She blows in the wind, out the window. A dandelion. Free.