Returning. Kurudi. 반환.

Returning. 

I am returning. 

Returning home. 

Home where my heart rests. 

Where I feel as though I make difference. 

Where I feel I belong most. 

Days are slowly passing. 

Five more. 

Four more. 

I am so close. 

And my excitement continues to grow. 

I am stuck in the preparation. 

The days run together. 

Sort, pack, weigh. 

Sort, pack, weigh. 

Repetitive. 

But the constant repeating doesn't really matter.

It is just something to occupy my time until I am seated on that United air flight. 

Until I switch airlines in DC to fly to Zurich and onto Dar es Salaam.

 Until I stand with my toes in the Indian Ocean and breathe salty Africa into my lungs. 

 Until I walk through the markets and pick out pieces of Africa that I'll bring back with me.

 Until I stare into a cup of red chai and realize it can only taste this good here. 

Until I ride those roads home and watch familiarity flash by.

Until I crest that last hill and this comes into view. 

Until I have returned home. 

. 

Away. Mbali. 떨어져.

Away. 

I have come away. 

Away. 

Far from Africa.
Far from home. 

Away. 

The miles and miles of ocean separate. 

Separate me from it. 

I close my eyes. 

I see. 

The hills. 

The skies. 

The freedom. 

I see the billowing clouds. 

I see the bending grasses. 

I see the sun high in the sky. 

I see the red dirt roads.

I see the blazing sunsets. 

I see the dense forests.

I open my heart. 

With pieces missing.

Faces. 

Dear, dear faces. 

Infants and wrinkles. 

Silly grins and teary eyes. 

Away. 

I was taken away. 

Family was lost. 

Relationships stretched across that ocean.

Away. 

I have come away. 

From all that is familiar. 

All that is dear. 

Away to America.
The land of plenty.

Seeing it all.
It hurts.

To think of the nothingness that home has.
And to see the vast abundance here.

Now I see it.
Stores.
Cars.
Food.
Excess.

Now I see the faces there.
The faces that can't imagine.

Even myself.
I cannot imagine wholly.

If family could see it.
Life here.
I would be ashamed.

Of what I did not share.
Of what I cannot share.

So away I am.
My worlds won't mesh.
I can't make them.
Though I try.

I have come away.

To a different life. 

Rainy Season. Masika. 우기.

The leaves tremble under the falling drops.
The wet bark is intensely hued.

Fog hangs over the distant hills. 

The cold wind bites.

The rain flowers have come and gone.
In all their brilliance, and have been replaced by the flame lilies.

Overgrown grass dominates the paths.
Red mushrooms spring up among the pines.

The world has a different feel in the rainy season.
It is softer.
And cleaner.

The days are marked by dark clouds billowing on the horizons.
Thunder blasting over the hills.
Lightening lighting up the dark nights.

The rain never ceases to come.
And fingers and toes are always cold.

The tin roof is constantly singing under the drops.
The brown river water rushes over the dam.

Everything is green.
Covered in a layer of moisture.

The crops spring up.
The leafy banners announcing their presence.

Fields upon fields of brown dirt are now suddenly dotted with small plants.

The villagers spend time weeding as much as they can in between the storms.

Puddles line paths.

The roads are muddy and occasionally have a river flowing through them.

Washed clothes never dry.
And the air is damp.

The wind is a biting cold force, rather than a warm wave.

Boots are a must.
And umbrellas are carried everywhere.

Buckets are filled with the rain water rolling off the roof.
Clean drinking water straight from the skies.

The mist comes in the morning and brilliant sunsets at night.

The rolling hills are covered in a blanket of green.
White wild flowers grow in the marshes.

The trees seem to stand taller, their plumes greener than ever.
Great billowy clouds constantly hover over the hills.

Her lullaby is hummed every night.
It is the sound of the African rain pounding the roof.

Evening. Jioni. 저녁.

It's evening.

The sounds mingle.

Birds singing in the trees behind. 

Chickens crowing. 

People chatting as they walk along the road across the river. 

Grain mills humming from off in the village.

Crickets chirping.

Boys shouting along the hills as they herded their cows. 

The sun is going down. 

Slowly. 

Ever so slowly. 

It's rays change from fiery red to pale yellow and peach. 

The orange orb has dipped below the tree line on the hills far above the river. 

Above the sky is blue but for the patches of bright golden clouds that spray across the wide expanse. 

The dog turns his head to listen to the herd boys talking. 

A bird lands close and flits about. 

Everything is now bathed in a golden glow. 

The distance has become a hazy blue. 

A cool breeze makes bare skin chilly. 

The grasses barely move in its wake. 

The sky begins to turn a bright orange, its last vibrancy before becoming 

nothing but the blackness of night. 

The moon has yet to show its face above the tall pines. 

She shivers. 

The birds' songs lessen. 

Small children can now be heard playing. 

The cricket continues his repetitive tune and the sky darkens. 

Gone is the vibrancy.

Pale colours again remain. 

The crow is now the only bird still audible. 

A harbinger of darkness. 

The herd boys have covered impressive ground as their voices can be heard on the outskirts of the village. 

Almost home. 

The trees become nothing but silhouettes. 

Their leaves dangling limply. 

The first star can be seen, glittering above.

The sounds have lulled. 

Gone is the light.

Gone is the day. 

Dry Season. Kiangazi. 건기.

The green shoots spring up among the black ashes.
And replace what was lost through the flames.
Flames that enveloped entire hillsides of dry grasses.

Purple flowers appear.
Adding some color to the monotony of the brown shades.

 The river is low.
And no water runs over the dam.

The pink soil scatters the path as the sunset highlights the pure colors.

Wind whips through the valleys and up along the edges of the hills.
The tall brown grasses bend and fold.

The roads are covered in layers and layers of silt.
Trucks are followed by clouds of dust.

It is the dry season.

Everything is brown.
Covered in a layer of dust.

The heat bears down.
Creating beads of sweat.

The soil is recently turned.
Preparing for the rains.

Hundreds of sacks of harvested corn lie waiting.
Waiting to be taken to the cities and sold.

The villagers are in a stalemate.
No income.
Waiting for the new crops.

The earth is parched.
And so are the people.

Cracked skin.
Sore throats.

Warm winds.
Water shortages.

The sun shines every day.
Long and steady.

There is no change in the weather.
Everyone is waiting for November the fifteenth, the day the rains come.

Death. Kifo. 죽음.

Death. 

The passing of a life. 

A life so fragile and delicate. 

Arriving at the Throne. 

To hear the sweet words, "Well done, My good and faithful servant."
Is the dream of every child of the King.

Life's work is over. 

Leaving this earthly world. 

Leaving it all behind. 

The tears, the sadness, the pain. 

Rejoicing. 

And praising the King. 

Left behind, the loved ones cry. 

They mourn.
They grieve.

Swathed in black cloths.
Red rimmed eyes.
They stare at the body of their loved one, who has already entered the gates of paradise. 

Their loss is searing.
Their hearts are forlorn. 

But comforted they are by the Everlasting Arms.
The Everlasting Arms.

Overwhelmed. Kuzidiwa. 압도.

Overwhelmed. 

Drowning, sinking. 

Over taken by the busyness of this world. 

Barely able to come up for breath. 

She's engulfed. 

This earth is so wrapped up in the now. 

The want of things. 

The want of moments. 

Constantly grabbing her attention.

These feelings of now. 

This need for 'me'. 

This need for 'my benefit'. 

She wants to let it all go. 

She wants it to fall to the side. 

Desiring a calm existence in a hectic world. 

Constant happenings and changes. 

Never ending, horrendous schedules. 

This is all very real. 

She is done with it. 

She is overwhelmed. 

Drowning, sinking. 

She needs air. 

She needs space. 

Let her go.