A New Mystery Series Takes Shape in Spain

Wed--Kwei

The Ember Glows Again

Embers come to life (Photo by Xiangkun ZHU on Unsplash)

For a time, it felt like the fire had gone out. Leaving the U.S. under political pressure and realizing I could no longer safely return to Ghana—the setting of my Darko Dawson and Emma Djan series—felt like a creative dead end. But stories don’t go quietly. A new spark flared from the dying embers, and a new mystery series began to form.

At its center is a horse trainer with a painful past, a sharp mind, and an unflinching sense of truth. The tone? Think Dick Francis meets Tana French. And the aphorism that anchors it all: Horses never lie. People do.

---

A Landscape Made for Mystery

Oviedo (Image: Nacho from Oviedo, Wikimedia)

The setting for this new story is northern Spain’s Asturias region—a land of misty peaks, old stone villages, and winding trails. Horses are not accessories here; they’re a way of life. Asturias has long maintained a strong rural equestrian culture, and that living bond between people and horses provides fertile ground—literally and literarily—for mystery and suspense.

---

Spain’s Equestrian Legacy

Andalusian stallion in a grassy field in Spain

(Image: Missi Köpf, Pexels)

While Asturias offers a quiet, earthy charm, the broader history of Spain’s horses runs deep. The Andalusian—Spain’s most iconic horse—has roots going back millennia. Known for elegance, strength, and intelligence, it was favored by kings, warriors, and nobles. It’s no exaggeration to say that Spain helped shape global horsemanship through its cavalry and classical riding schools.

---

Oviedo vs. Barcelona: Two Spains

My family once spent time in Barcelona and found it open, diverse, and welcoming. Oviedo, by contrast, is quieter, more traditional, and more homogeneous. In Barcelona, diversity is part of the fabric; in Oviedo, it stands out. As a Black American, I expect to be noticed. But I don’t expect hostility—just curiosity, perhaps some unconscious bias, and the usual dance of cultural adjustment.

Africans in Spain: A Forgotten History

       The Moorish Chief, by Edouart Charlemont

             Philadelphia Museum of Art

Spain is often portrayed as monolithically white and Catholic, but that ignores a rich, complicated history. During the centuries of Muslim rule, Black Moors—some of whom were kings and generals—held power in Al-Andalus. Black Africans weren’t always enslaved; many were scholars, architects, and advisors.

Yet, this history has been largely erased or whitewashed in mainstream Spanish narratives. Today’s Afro-Spaniards are still fighting for visibility, recognition, and a place in the national story.

The Racial Spectrum in Spain

Before committing to this move, I spent time on YouTube watching videos by Black expats, Afro-Spaniards, and travelers of color. What I found was mixed. Some speak of subtle racism: staring, stereotyping, or being assumed to be a street vendor or nanny. Others describe a social "hierarchy of Blackness"—a cringeworthy but real phenomenon—where African Americans are often romanticized while West Africans, particularly darker-skinned immigrants, face systemic marginalization.

This isn’t unique to Spain, but it’s worth noting. A Ghanaian immigrant may experience Spain very differently from a Black American tourist or writer. Class, skin tone, accent, and passport all matter. They shouldn’t—but they do.

Facing Forward—Aware, Not Afraid

Two Mexican Americans I spoke to recently told me bluntly, “The Spanish are racist.” I didn’t argue, but I took a beat. That statement says as much about the complicated relationship between Latin America and Spain as it does about Spain itself. Many Latin Americans feel looked down upon by Europeans from the peninsula. Colonial trauma lingers, even in casual remarks.

My response? I’m going to Spain aware, not naïve. I’m not going to seek approval. I’m going to live—and to write.

Stories are rising again, and this time, they're set in the green heart of Spain.

Travelling while vegan

Leye- Every other Wednesday

I’ve now been on a vegan diet everyday of 2018, so far, and it’s been great. My smugness level keeps increasing, which is exciting. I’ve also noticed other effects of the diet. For one, my sense of smell has greatly improved. I can smell bacon and egg sandwich from a mile away. I can even tell if the customer has gone for the cheeky extra bacon. If you’ve had steak, I can tell several hours later. I can even tell how you had it cooked: rare, medium rare, or, you-do-not-deserve-this-meat. I can also walk into a restaurant and tell you what delicious cuts of beef they have on the menu. My sense of smell has greatly improved.

I’ve also lost some weight, not that I was overweight, to start with. Where someone sees a big stomach on me, I see fat reserves for a rainy day. My 36-inch trousers now gather under the belt, which is kind of annoying. And last year, before this vegan madness, I reluctantly accepted reality and bought my first XL shirt. It now feels like an XXL shirt and I’m upset because I haven’t worn my money’s worth out of it.

Another interesting result of my strictly vegan diet is a renewed efficiency of my digestive system. Which can be inconvenient as I’m one of those people who prefer to do at home, those things that cannot be delegated.

I’m also learning things about myself. For example, I am not vegan. Yes, I’m on a vegan diet, and yes I care for the wellbeing of animals, but I am not throwing away my non-vegan shoes and belts and bags. I recently bought a new leather sofa. It’s yet to be delivered, and when it is, I’ll have no qualms packing my derrière on it. It’s a lovely sofa. You should come visit when it arrives.

I’m also learning important lessons that do not apply to anyone who is not vegan. For example, travelling while vegan requires planning.

Twice this so far this year, I’ve experienced the harsh realities of traveling while vegan. The first time was a three-day trip to Spain for the 2018 Barcelona Negra, a lovely festival where I got to meet and take a picture with THE James Ellroy.

My lovely hotel in Barcelona had a vegan friendly menu. Ratatouille without the advertised poached egg. I ate the same meal each day till I discovered a place on Las Ramblas where they were happy to fix me a vegan paella. It tasted like heaven - till my hunger was sorted, then the rest of it tasted wrong.

The second time I’ve travelled while vegan is just last week. I was in France for Les Mots du Monde à Nantes. This time it was a four-day trip. It was lovely. I enjoyed every day of the festival under the artistic directorship of the amazing Alain Mabanckou, the best-dressed writer in the world as far as I’m concerned.

I enjoyed the city of Nantes. I even did the tourist thing, which I hardly ever do unless there’s promise of wine on the route. Anyway, this time the authors had food vouchers for each day of the festival. The restaurant serving the food also catered for people dumb enough to switch to a vegan diet. They had rice and vegetables. This, my friends, was the only thing I ate, lunch and dinner, for the entire time I was in Nantes.  I don’t do breakfast.

The lesson I have learnt from these sojourns, as a person on a vegan diet, is this: do not, whatever you do, let the other authors at the festival know that you are on a vegan diet. Don’t. Trust me. They will find the most creative ways to taunt you over your insane choice of diet. They will let it slip into the questions they ask while you’re on a panel. They will make jokes with the waiters – in French, so you’re not even sure what they’ve said. (I should brush up on my primary school French). And they will never stop offering you a slice of their juicy, smells-so-delicious, full of umami, medium rare sirloin steak. What a mean bunch.