So Much To Say, So Little Time

         No excuses.  The world is spinning and twirling and I'm flying high.  Last performance of the play tonight.  It has been such an incredible ride.  This play has seen me crawl from depths of an unexpected despair; shed some drama, some weight, some bitter scars.  My heart is new and full and as courageous as fuck.  Everyone loves me, and I love me too....like WHAT! 


        This week and next all the jobs are finally coming through.  Spent a few days shadowing at a daycare.  It's kinda unsettling how easily little babies will accept you as an authority figure and will immediately seek your approval and love.  They are SO impressionable!! It would be a wondrous responsibility to have them in my guard, and actually I did just that.  I could do it; I could handle it. Still waiting for the final word, but as far as I'm concerned I've proved myself to myself, to God (who already knew), to the world. Funny, I suspect the world may be just as impressionable as those little babies.  It will believe anything about you, that you believe. BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU BELIEVE.  


         My daughter had another little breakdown after too much upheaval from her normal routine of waking up to find me there.  She admitted she does not yet believe we Love her; she still thinks we may toss her aside someday. Ha! Like God smiling down on his children, inside I smile even while I soothe her pain, because I know how false it is.  She will never lose me, and I will never let her go.  In my arms, she will ALWAYS fit.  But of course, I pray she will realize this Truth, just as I pray to realize the Truth of God's Love for me.  Nurturing and Patience are the seeds of Possibility.  

calshakes.wordpress.com

         I am the only African in the play.  All along, this fact has been a non-issue, because of the wonderful and welcoming way the cast has treated me.  But on stage, feeling the audiences' confusion at my presence-hell at my perfection in the role, I feeling my skin is on fire with their projected marvel.  I feel isolated in my blackness-a feeling I have not had to experience in many years.  But the secondary result of this is even more startling.  My mother herself, who knew I was the only black person in the play, said it was not until she saw the performance that she realized that I am an anomaly in singular racial casting.  I am not the token; I am the Lead.  She could not believe the pride she felt, and those sentiments have been explicitly echoed by other Africans; they have stayed behind to thank me in reverent and sincere tones.  Shall I write my Oscar speech now? No, of course not; but the ironic reality of living this Expat African life can be so apparent in moments such as these, you feel as if you have slipped back to a time that is usually reserved for the stage. 

xroads.virginia.edu

        An aside: you would not believe how many servant women come to collect the little babies at the school dressed in full "Mammy" uniform, complete with apron and white head scarf. It is what it is. And if I am to represent a moment of pride in my racial community, then so be it; and what joy that it should be in something I truly enjoy doing well! 


       
            I am also full of pride.  My Love that Got Away (what a lovely term, yeah? I've never known what to call him until I saw this on someone else's blog.) has embarked on a month long road trip with his daughter. This is something he has been wanting to do for so long, and its occurrence represents so many grand achievements within him.  Though I only know all this from stalking, as I am not currently accepted into his life, I cannot help but to feel so damn proud.  You go daddy! I am there with you.  The last time he threw himself out over the ledge like this, he fell right into my arms, then I fell in Love.  God knows what He's doing with this one and that is all I can say about that.




                  Dear God, You're so cool!......
          


          

Racial Profiling

http://www.webweaver.nu

          This weekend we went to a barbecue hosted by a colleague of my mothers.  It was a far better experience than I had expected.  I had expected a bunch of development people throwing acronyms about project plans involving players, all of which in no way clarify what it is they actually do.  Since this was a family dinner, I also expected children playing and significant partners chatting about.....partnering, or parenting, or some such things, which are subjects that, though I find much more interesting,  I have not much credibility in and therefore nothing to contribute.  Instead, I imagined I would have no choice but to awkwardly answer uncomfortable questions which would expose me as a fraudulent grown-up deserving judgment, condescension, and dismissal (it may be I have a skewed perception, but I have found myself in such scenarios enough to know that I am an annoying anomaly in the networking landscape).  

           It is true the small gathering did consist of five couples; my mother and I were the only singles, but as she is older than everyone, she rocks that whole token African grandmother shtick pretty well.  Almost everyone worked in the same field, and all, but I, had direct and mostly current experience parenting small children; I was an anomaly.  But none of my prophesied humiliations came to pass; instead I was fully and wholeheartedly accepted as: 1.) My mother's daughter 2.) My daughter's mother 3.) A grown up.  Huzzah! Individuals felt free to share intimate anecdotes about their lives as if we were......equals.     Having understood that I was jobless, everyone assumed this was a temporary and expected glitch in my transition, showed curiosity in my interests, and gave sincere advice to push me forward.  Similar things have happened while doing the play, but with the much more familiar tinge of judgment or at least.....wariness and disconnection (they are all British).

            It was only when we were leaving that my mother commented on the common thread amongst all those present, which I had overlooked: all the foreigners (except us) were Canadian, the host was Tanzanian but has been working with Canadians for many years (and has family there).   

            Canadians (even the French ones.....in small doses) are so very nice, it can leave one confused.  I was confused: "wow! I had.....fun!!"  They possess quiet amiability, humble pride, sincere curiosity, and a genuine receptivity to others.  Canadians are unabashedly unaffected.

            It is a pity they are generally lumped in with American and European whites (who make it a point to distinguish themselves from each other).  They are actually very unique in the white population; I don't think they know how nice they are; I don't think it's ever occurred to them.... (Oops, did my own ignorance just show? I guess this whole time I was referring to White Canadians-though one of the women at the party was Mexican Canadian-anyhow, the disclaimer is in the title, so pffft.)  

community.artofmanliness.com

            It has come to my attention that there are certain organizations in Africa that are owned and operated by Black Americans who use their race as a badge of expertise and empathetic fraternity when bidding for money for humanitarian projects in Africa.  This is a load of shit.  Black Americans are invariably explicitly derogatory and condescending towards Africans (even worse than Jamaicans).   

            My sister always said, she never knew she was black until we moved to America. Guess who told her?  I was only five when we moved.  School, for me, was simply about survival, about adaptation.  I was willing to be accepted by anyone who would take me.  It was white people who accepted me (well at the time I thought they were white, it wasn't until I got to college that I realized was taught New Yorkers make a firm distinction between Jewish New Yorkers, and White New Yorkers; it was the Jewish children who were always the kindest).  It was almost as if they, the Jewish whites, already expected my "otherness", while the blacks took offence to it. They readily shamed me for not having personal awareness of their history and the intimacies of slavery.  Even what I did know was not enough, because I wasn't angry enough, I wasn't.....wounded; I acted like that history was not mine (which it wasn't).  


           The American slavery system and decades of systematic racism were known to me in the same way I came to know of the Holocaust, the Apartheid System, Australia's history of native decimation, and so forth.  This was very confusing and unacceptable to them (right through to university this caused a lot of tension with my black classmates; despite the fact that we otherwise had similar socioeconomic and education backgrounds, the absence of a chip on my shoulder meant I was a sell out-an Oreo. Sorry dears, I'm just AFRICAN). Perhaps they had been taught to think of themselves as related to Africans-a historical fact, but a cultural misnomer.


            When Black Americans talk about Africa, or visit the developing world (including the West Indies), they are far more disgusted by the inconveniences of daily life than any other visitors: the heat, the lack of certain modern appliances, the animals, all the dark-skinned people.....and so forth.  No, really! They make a very big point of these things and do so loudly, almost as if (psychobabble in 4, 3, 2......) they are instinctively trying to distinguish themselves for that which they've been conditioned to hate......in themselves.  Growing up in America, for sure the cruelest most disgusting jokes about dark skin came to me from the black children.  I would go so far as to argue that most middle class white youths (at least in New York) who become prejudice or racist as young adults, learn their hate-filled humor from their black classmates.

          I've been feeling romantic 
again lately.  This is a very romantic time of year for me, that's for sure.  And it helps that I am becoming more social in Dar, though everyone here seems to come in couples only form-minus that douche from awhile back.  Due to the supposed "threat" I pose as a single mother in her thirties, I have decided to create a boyfriend I've left back in Uganda.  Since we began dating before I moved or decided to become a mother, the relationship is fragile enough to leave room should something better turn up, but hopefully reassuring to the women I meet that I do not want to steal their husbands (the feminist adage of my generation still sticks: chicks before dicks, simple and catchy).


             There is something wonderfully fantastical about thinking about romance when you are in no position to have any of the real thing.  It really stimulates the imagination, brings one back to the "when I grow up" days of promise and unyielding faith;  It keeps one from going insane and/or humping the gatekeeper.  

              As it is finally clear to me that I will never be satisfied with dating someone who looks just like me (apparently I have been this way since I was child), I have been musing on what race I would like my fantasy guy to be, like in the Sims, or some other such online world (I am such a nerd I don't even need the Internet to live an alternate life). 

http://images.cafepress.com/

             Last week I apparently missed a Dutch throw down that had everyone but everyone there (thanks for telling me cast members).  I came home and lamented, "Damn! I missed my chance to make out with a Dutchie and find a husband!!"  My mother and Ms V were both sympathetic.  But I did the Dutch thing back in Uganda, and two years later I still can't get that man out of my system.  Dutch men are so casually complex and tiresomely enigmatic.  I don't think I'm up for it.


              American, British, (Canadians are too nice?) men would make sense, except, unless they are 60 plus, I would bet any man from those areas who relocates here would come with wife in hand.  Those men would be way too afraid to begin alone here.  Dar is a place to import a family; coming alone would be......uncivilized.


              The question then becomes, who would be likely to show up untethered and within an appealing age range?  Indians, for sure; South Africans, for similar managerial networking positions.  Both groups can be utterly racist, derogatory and oversexed, and hedonistically fun-I am interested in none of those situations.


               Then it hit me:  I want a man who is not bothered, nor even aware of societal conscripts about age and lifestyle; a man who easily immerses in other cultures without feeling an ounce of threat towards his own; a man who does much, thinks less, and knows everything worth knowing; a man who would find the intensity that I present an amusing challenge, and thus challenged by me, would feel committed by his own sense of loyalty; a man who believes in character not circumstance because that is how his mother raised him; a man who believes everything his mother ever told him.  He sounds deliciously fantastical, yes?  Well, it IS my fantasy! But the truth is, I have caught a glimpse of a more realistic version of this man a few times in my life, and he was always Irish.  


         I have never dated an Irish guy, these glimpses always happened at inopportune times when the subject could not be pursued, but this cowboy image has lingered in my memory.  I know little about Ireland, and obviously I don't want someone straight off the boat (though Irish men tend to get around anyhow).  Yeah, in my ideal fantasy world, I'd have to say, I want me an Irish bloke.  

          It's not like I'm losing my mind per se (my therapist is on holiday, but I'm sure she'd agree) but transitions, like grief, go in stages:  First there is the overwhelming physical stimulus of a new place-the way the light falls, the night sounds, the air smells, etc.  Then there is the nesting, the withdrawal into yourself, your home, your sanctuary, to clean, prepare, and make pretty.  And now I find myself in the level of emergence; I am not yet a part of this new world, I have not yet found my niche, but I have rested and rearranged myself for my big debut; the necessary step in finding where my prepared Self shall fit in-my niche-is to categorize this new environment in schemas based on past experience; it is with these schemas as my weapons tools that I shall brave this foreign jungle and conquer it as men women Expat Warriors have done time and again.  Thus Canadians: may seem bland, very nourishing, easy to find and cultivate; Pretentious NGOS: predatory, toxic, to be avoided at all costs.  Irish Single Men: potent, deliciously satisfying, though elusive, would be worth the hunt.

The question is, what is in season?

backstage.blogs.com
         

The Expat Bourgeoisie

            

Main Entry:	expatriate  [v. eks-pey-tree-eyt or, especially Brit., -pa-tree-; adj., n. eks-pey-tree-it, -eyt or, especially Brit., -pa-tree-]  Show IPA
Part of Speech:	noun
Definition:	person thrown out of a country
Synonyms:	departer, deportee, displaced person, emigrant,evacuee, exile, expellee, migrant, outcast,refugee, émigré (courtesy of thesaurus.com)

            
              
              I am stuck, uninvited, in someones home as the rain pours down in lightweight sheets and I wait for my mother to make her way to us, already 20 minutes late.  I have been in close quarters with this woman over the last six weeks, during rehearsals, but that is not the same as being "welcomed" in her home. Uganda has taught me to be weary of such boundaries of intimacy, so tricky to navigate since they are never mentioned, but so very apparent when you feel you've crossed one.


            This is one of the few expat homes I've been in, and my eyes paw through the things trying to asses if we measure up, making note of where we fall short.  Well, of course there is the location-it is always about location, but we know this is a temporary miscue on our part; we will fix that.  


            The forested garden outside must be almost an acre; the grill on the deck alongside cushioned, hand crafted lounge chairs, mock our isolated existence (a remnant of Ugandan life that we must lose if we mean to survive here). The children play on the computer, the parents sort through old photo albums, a task they have "been meaning to get to for ages".  


             Out of the corner of my eye, a woman rushes by the window, ducking the rain, clinging to clothes picked off the line.  My mother was right to hire a housekeeper; I breath a sigh of relief; we are not so badly off; we belong.


             Being in the play has given me a taste of the Dar Expat community.  Anyone who doesn't understand the homogenized nature of expatriate communities in third world countries, should just wait for the reality t.v series (they call 'em documentaries in the U.K innit); I'm sure there'll be one along shortly.  It is a fascinating community: people whose lives would look very different were they in their "home" countries (some expats live abroad for 20 years or more so this term gets.....tricky) all adopt the same laissez faire, privileged/humble, sheltered/exposed, paradoxical lifestyle that comes with the expatriate position.  It is a class that is at once peripheral to and the apex of mainstream society; the former being in regards to responsibility (and vulnerability), the latter in regards to privilege (and security).  Sort of like celebrities (this analogy can also help describe the difference between immigrant or Diaspora populations and expats; there are actors and then there are celebrities).


               It isn't really about the help:  the drivers, cooks, baby-raisers, always in the background, always an assumed aspect of life, even in speech: I get offered rides from rehearsal only to find they have to call up the driver and wait for him to come (though they live, "just around the corner").  During the tsunami scare my mother's colleague was also out of town at the conference; her husband was in town in a meeting, and didn't not make it home until 10 p.m.  The children were with their caretakers, the oldest is five.


              Though western (white) expats do it on a grander scale, having help is ironically common in developing countries.  Much of the population, across income levels, relies on some form of hired hands (even if it is more of an exchange for room and board, a barter, as opposed to a direct salary) to assist in daily living.  To me, the irony is the casual, easy way that those who were raised in societies were this is a privilege for the absurdly rich, adapt to this type of lifestyle.  Expats are experts when it comes to living the good life.


             In Uganda, I was trying so hard to claim my identity that I was willing to part with large part of my Self for the chance to be accepted as a Ugandan.  I spent three years proclaiming I was, for the first time in my life, a local.  I lived my life ignoring all that exists in Kampala in terms of expatriate life-and it, in turn, ignored me. But in many ways, so did the locals; they rejected my application to the fraternity. In my attempts to assimilate,  I failed wholeheartedly. At times I have thought I was ruthlessly punished for my false claim, but maybe it was more of tough love; maybe it was meant as an encouragement to really embrace who I am.  I was not born in Uganda; I was not raised in Uganda; why did I feel I should be a local? I am, born and raised, an outsider; I am an Expat.  I used to say I was a retired expat, well, I've come out of retirement.  I am me again.  It's funny how quickly you revert to those forgotten habits of comfortable disconnection, luxury, ease, and humble exclusivity:


             The door bell rings; I wrap my exposed legs and run to let Ana in.  She comes here three times a week, just enough for me to not feel invaded.  She can barely speak English.  I know where she lives, not far.  My mother tells me she has a child; I have not asked her its name; and I will not make a point of it.   I don't know her mother-tongue, or where her village is.  I have never met her parents; I do not know if she has siblings, how many, what they are doing.  She knows nothing about me except that I like to eat chocolate and stuff the wrappers under my bed.  She cannot claim a part of my history; she cannot claim to know my grandparents and their home better than I do. I am a stranger to her and she to me; both of us like it this way; it makes more sense this way. 

A Run For The Hills (2)

            You know that scene in disaster movies, when everyone is trapped in traffic trying to calmly save themselves, while being thoroughly perplexed by the fact that everyone else is doing the exact same thing, thus making all attempts futile?  Well, it turns out, that is EXACTLY what happens in real life as well.  

latimesblogs.latimes.com

chrisrrau.wordpress.com

           Had the Tsunami actually 

hit, we would have been like panicking, flailing, cannibalistic ducks, sitting in a barrel filled with petrol. 

            We'd a been fucked, and looked damn stupid on top.


             Gotta support the local press, but what I hate about the above link (and really all post-tsunami scare journalistic rhetoric) is the blahblahblah, "our government isn't doing enough to prepare for a safe evacuation."  WTF?? The above pictures are from disaster movies, but try googling "disaster movie traffic jam scene" like I first did, and you will be overwhelmed by the pictures of REAL LIFE TRAFFIC JAMS, on an ordinary day, taken in cities all over the world.  Dar-ahem-is a city.  And BY DEFINITION (especially in this day and age) a city is an overcrowded, condensed locale, usually daily inundated with a large mass of migrating persons from nearby towns and suburbs.  Exactly what is the government-ANY government- supposed to do, call Batman? And why are we so surprised that a set of emergency only highways did not pop out of the ground and form into evacuating bridges over our swarming selves to lead us into safety (where OF COURSE there would be jack-in-the-box like five star hotels ready to pop up and receive the masses with free complimentary drinks and extra towels)?

                 I did what everybody else did; I tried to get out and protect my baby; but if shit had gone down, I damn sure wouldn't have wasted what little breath I had trying to blame someone else for it (hence Natural Disaster).  Then again, I'm the protagonist in this fairytale so we all know I would have made it out alive and heroically saved all sorts of people along the way (bumping into my True Love who was is also a hero-like super hot b-.....but I digress).

         
                So-well-I mean-maybe I did indulge a TAD in some melodramatics when my mother initially called me with the news that we were on alert for a possible Tsunami as a result of the recent Earthquake off the coast of Indonesia, but nothing compares to my Little One's propensity for hysterics:  I once misplaced one of my favorite rings; upon mentioning this and starting to casually look for it, Ms V began hysterically crying out to the Lord: "Oh Jesus! Sweet Jesus help!! Help, where is the RING?? Where is it? Oh God, oh Jesus, you LOST your RING!!" and so forth.  To her (and the Lord's) credit, she found it some five minutes later.


        
               We spent about an hour flitting around the house, straining our eyes in the dying light trying to pack, "anything you feel is important to you" in the off chance that we would come home to....well.....no home.  The Little One did not go into hysterics exactly, but her voice did get really high, and soft, and fragile; her eyes, which are already as large as my Owl gizomo-thingy, managed to grow even larger, and she kept apologizing for the oddest things, "I'm sorry I startled you just now; I'm really, really sorry you were startled." and such.  I kept my Zen cool thing and, in the end, she was freakin AMAZING; she even reminded me to close all the windows (wait, when was the last time she was in a Tsunami???) 


             It wasn't until we emerged outside to grab a taxi, that I begun realizing the enormity of what was going on.  It was bright out, but with a consistent rain falling; it was about 6-ish so naturally people were trying to go home anyway.  Swarms of people chose to march down the road to get home on foot, while the rest of us sat in traffic with a barely constrained panic; some poor souls (many hugely pregnant) stood waiting for the public bus-like there was a chance in hell they be home before midnight if they even had the luck of catching one.  Much like my earlier greeting when my daughter arrived, we were all trying to be very adult about the whole thing, and secretly hating it.

THAILAND- novinite.com

             The epiphany of the anticlimactic great escape is finding yourself, after two hours in traffic, some 700 feet away from your house.  And to add insult to injury, while sitting in traffic, all our prized possessions safely stowed in the back of the ghetto van turned taxi we have heroically secured, we watched the rain stop and the streets lights and power come back on.  

INDIA- cdn-wac.emirates247.com

              








               All the while, we'd been communicating with my mother who had (after much scolding mind you) dutifully turned around and was now waiting for us just outside of town to continue the trip with her.    I found myself thinking (.....hoping? I know, terrible) that this was just the calm before the storm and shit was about to get crazzzzy any minute now, but eventually even I had to beg the driver to turn around. Luckily Unfortunately, he didn't speak any English and was stoically determined to complete his drop-off.


              All in all, the hectic frenzy of the failed escape was the final deciding factor.  After all that panic, we needed a little R&R. So to the hills we went.

morogorofamily.blogspot.com

              
              Though her workshop ended Friday, we decided to stick around and go exploring.  My mother and I are kindred spirits in our LOVE for a NATURAL

BEWARE, BEWARE, 

THE CLOUDS ARE FALLING;

ADVENTURE.  








           The Little One is a big sissy spoil-sport......but we tried to not let it get on our nerves too much.  She has a lot to learn.

BE AWARE

              Most notably, on that note, her willful rejection of studying English is still in full effect! I decided, despite my upcoming birthday, the next week would have to begin Operation Boarding School Boot camp!! Spell DISCIPLINE!  

A Run For The Hills (1)

              Nothing like an unexpected adventure to do what a weekend holiday in paradise, followed by some much needed time a part, still could not accomplish: we, three, are finally a bonded, harmonious, peaceful family again (fuck March) Yaaay April!! And all it took was the threat of a tsunami (why didn't I think of that?!?).


              The Little One and my mother arrived a day later than expected (which I should have expected) on Wednesday afternoon.


             I will tell you a secret: part of my anxiety at being away from the Little One, is that a.) she wouldn't miss me b.) she would find she was happier visiting her other relatives that she used to live with when her mother first died, and so my mother would decide to let them take her back c.) she wouldn't miss me AND wouldn't be happy to see me.  


             They came in soaked from the days rain, my mama looked just as shy of me as I was of my daughter, as if she goes through the same anxiety over me (and a tiny part of my mind made a note of this).  The Little One would not look me in eye; she carried a big suitcase and concentrated on trying to bring it in, ignoring my attempts to help her.  My heart did a tailspin and I did all I could to not fall on my knees in anguish.  The art of adulthood: to be falling apart inside, and on the outside, you are exchanging small pleasantries:


    "hiiiii, look you're all wet" (oh my God, she hates me).


     "Here let me help you" (damn it just give me the suitcase, great the driver's watching, can they all see it??)


      "Hi mama. Hi Little One! I missed you! Ohh you're cold, huh? (WHY won't she look at me? what's happened? What's going on?? I've completely FUCKING failed-can't let it show, must not let it show, fuck, fuck, FUCK)


      "Would you guys like some tea?....I said would you like some tea Vannesa?? (Mama says ALWAYS act like nothing is wrong-I HATE being a grown-up!)


             Well, melodrama is in the mind of the beholder. After a cup of tea, a sweet snack, and some Mindful techniques of emotional observation (did I mention I have a therapist now? She's no Guru*, but she is a good dose of "just what I needed"-God Bless!) it occurred to both of us that, "Hey, I actually still love you; and wow! You TOTALLY love me to!" A much needed separation, followed by an equally integral reunion.


             It turned out that, despite some unsettling health concerns that had been the cause for the delay, my mother was only stopping in long enough to take a shower and grab new clothes before hitting the road for an out of town workshop.  There hadn't been any power since the night before and my mother left while the building manager was trying to rectify the problem.


             We sat down to a nice meal of homemade fish and chips (a little indulgence to welcome home my Love); It must have been four o'clock so this was late lunch, early dinner.  I considered maybe taking us to the movies, but the rain (though light) didn't seem to be letting up.  Then my mobile rang; it was my mother......


             "Soooooo, I've just gotten an update on my phone, there was an earthquake in Indonesia and Dar Es Salaam is on alert for a Tsunami."


              The funny thing about me: I need a therapist to navigate the overwhelming pressures of choosing a country to settle down in, getting a job, getting a boyfriend, etc. But give me an unexpected crisis and I'm ON IT, like WHAT! I become all Peaceful and Zen. Let's recap:


 I have no power, no computer, not even batteries in the radio; 
the fridge is semi-stocked (my mother just unloaded a shitload of avocados for me to do I dunno what with so no threat of scurvy); 
I can't swim; 
Everyone I would think to call in Dar will probably be at this out of town workshop-though I probably wouldn't call them anyway; 
my mother spent the night before in the hospital after a severe migraine attack and is now on the road on a four hour journey; 
how come everyone in other natural disaster crisi (crisi? really?-blame spell check on that shit) always seem to have boats?-
I don't EVEN HAVE A BOAT!!

metro.co.uk

DISCLAIMER: Don't get me wrong. I am not in anyway dismissing the horrific, tragic, realities of natural disasters.  I am in no way trivializing the suffering that happens. I am sincerely relating my exact thoughts as I spoke to my mother about what could very well be a life-changing circumstance and looked around our house instinctively trying to spot what could be turned into a flotation device in a pinch.....to no avail.......


             

Safe Landing

(I wrote this when we came to visit Tanzania last month, to plan for this move, which I wasn't sure I was going to be apart of. Now, oops, I'm here. But as is often the case with transitions, this business of landing, jumping up and dusting yourself off-this "hit the ground running" shit, is a myth, an utter myth.  It's kinda like my brain's been scrambled by the ride: just Kampala to Dar-an hour and half by plane, but one lifetime has ended, and another one begins. And though I'm filled with hints of thoughts, associations, observations, and wonderings, any attempt I try to put them in some sort of wise-let alone-poetic analysis is utterly futile.  The most coherent thought I keep returning to is: "wait, so what day is it again?" So here's a little story I wrote in a brief moment of Zen. Once upon a time...)

Gooooood...
Mourn-ing meester fishermen
The rain don't seem so bad today
Catch me somethin sweet, yea
... My app-e-tite is rich-a
But my wallet is not so-oh
A favor for this gal, yo

Mama's off to work again
Big boss is up in drama
Development makes bizness sense-
Another day, an-other dolla

Morning Mr. President, staying just next door
Last night I thought your special guards
Were perverts on my floor
M'i'bad Mr. Man, hope you had a rest
Your guards were very dutiful
Cameroon, you are de best.

Dar, Dar, Es Salaam
In-sha-llah?
Yes I am!
Some mornings are so sweet you know
Makes this life a treat, you know?

Dar, Dar, Es Salaam
Inshallah, where I began

And now I make my way-ay-ay
Have yourselves a Blessed DAAAAAAYYYYYYY!!!!!
♥