“In his usual spot on 125th Street [& Adam Clayton Powell Blvd], taking call after call on his cell phone on a recent Tuesday, Sidibe Ibrahima looked every inch an editor. Under one arm, he carried proofs of a novel that a friend had asked him to look at. Over the phone, he was reassuring another writer about her book. ‘Send me two chapters,’ he told her soothingly. With his little glasses and his affable, patient manner, Mr. Ibrahima would not seem out of place stalking the halls of a high-profile publishing house”
—New York Times, July 17, 2005
19 April 2021