Sometimes in Africa, children roll plastic lids down long hillsides, chasing them with sticks and bits of wire until their bones ache and they sleep like old dogs.
Sometimes in Africa we can stand up in the Land Rover, sticking our heads out the windows and forgetting all about seat belts. Dust billows through the windows and pretty soon we can’t tell one another from the buffalo, our faces so dirty!
Sometimes in Africa wedding parties cruise the streets of town banging drums and blowing trumpets, people dressed in lace and satin as white as the snows of Kilimanjaro.
Sometimes in Africa the light of a full moon shines on fields of maize and beans like a magic spotlight for the dance of skeletons. But always in Africa doves coo and we dream of home.
Sometimes in Africa, before the rains, elephants dig deep holes to take their baths. They wallow in muddy pools made by tusks and trunks in dry river beds. They always seem to know just where to dig.
Sometimes in Africa thunder rumbles but the rains forget to come and everything turns to dust. Goats and cattle cry and women walk far and far with buckets on their heads.
Sometimes in Africa thunder rumbles and the rains DO come, washing spiders and shoes and everything in their path downstream. Then the world turns the greenest green you’ve ever seen.
Sometimes in Africa, after the rains, great toads and tortoises can be coaxed out of their holes to become shy friends for an hour or a day. But always in Africa roosters crow and we dream of home.
Sometimes in Africa, when a papaya is ripe, we shimmy up the bumpy trunk with a stick to poke it down. We slice it and eat it with lime juice, yum!
Sometimes in Africa when termites are swarming, our neighbors feast on fresh insects – crunch crunch. By the next morning the only proof of the feast is a pile of translucent wings around the mound.
Sometimes in Africa we drink Loshoro, straight from a smoky calabash. The fermented milk is lumpy and sweet.
Sometimes in Africa, on the Indian Ocean, little boys spear octopus with long, slender sticks in the shallow waves. Their bodies are covered in black, sticky ink when they come in to sell their leggy catch. But always in Africa donkeys brey and we dream of home.
Sometimes in Africa the old ones spit on our heads. We bow towards them to receive the blessing, saying Shikamoo, Koko – “I kiss your feet, grandmother.”
Sometimes in Africa the warriors and maidens dance, leaping into the sky. They shake their shoulders up and down and sing to Engai who lives in the smoking mountain.
Sometimes in Africa we walk to the market for coconuts and mangoes and oil for the lantern. Women selling beads and bananas call out to us and we admire their colorful wares.
Sometimes in Africa we carry our babies to town on our backs, just like the real mamas do, wrapped in kangas and tied securely around our shoulders. Then all the mamas smile at us and tell us what good mamas we’ll be one day. But always in Africa the chickens cluck and we dream of home.
Sometimes in Africa the early morning sunshine wakes us from our dreams with a kiss. On sunny days the African plains are as wide as forever and birds fly in from Timbuktu and beyond.
Sometimes in Africa we get mealies for lunch – maize roasted over charcoal by happy women on the side of the road. We chew on them for the rest of the day, sucking the juice from the ends.
Sometimes in Africa the afternoons are as long as years. The wind stops and the sun beats down on people and animals and cicadas and none but the cicadas can keep their eyes open even when they try as hard as they can.
Sometimes in Africa, after the sun goes down, a harmony of voices skips across the school yard and through our bedroom window, a wild lullaby for us as we drift towards tomorrow. And always in Africa crickets chirp and we dream of home.
Happy Valentine’s Day! We miss you and will be home this June.
With Lots of love, Eric, Abby, Claire and Stella
