I\’92ll forever miss seeing the rain in Africa, and the red dirt, and the dark inhabitants of that dark continent. No longer will I catch the first drop of sub-saharan water in my tongue as it falls, just like I promised myself if ever I set foot on that land.
I imagine fanning myself furiously, my sweat-soaked shirt clinging to my back, trying to keep the mosquitoes off as I lie in my hard bed doing my best to catch some asleep. Like cigarette smoke, the images I conjured, in anticipation of my supposedly 4-year stay, vanished\’97gone like the desert mirage that gives false hope to dying travellers.
\’93How is Africa?\’94 I asked my colleague who\’92d been there for a while now.
\’93Dusty.\’94 she said.
She\’92s probably in some mildly lit room, hunched over a dilapidated table, worksheets held in place by some ancient paperweight, a wire fan trying to help the airconditioner that has seen better days. She\’92d be applying Vicks just below her nostrils.
\’93Sometimes, the smell here can be overpowering.\’94 She said to me once.
\’93It\’92s the smell of the old world.\’94 I wanted to tell her then. But I kept my thoughts to myself. That I will never experience it was too painful, as if a secret memory of a beach has been reclaimed from me.
I did not hesitate when I was asked to go. I didn\’92t care how many birthdays, or anniversaries, or christmases I would leave behind. When I said yes, everything faded in ignominy.
\’93Finally,\’94 I told myself \’93I\’92m going to the cradle of civilization.\’94
It seems to me that I\’92ll forever be living in Africa vicariously, through other people\’92s songs, through other people\’92s books.
I allowed myself to dream of Africa, and despite not having set foot on her land, still, she broke my heart.
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