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In all their brilliance, and have been replaced by the flame lilies.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.