The baby cricket that hopped up, not high enough, and ran into the side of my pot of water with a “clink” and fell back down. It waits another minute (calming its nerves?) before trying to hop again.
The feeling of the hot morning sand between my toes as I walk to a patch of ferns to spit my toothpaste. Many times I forget to wear my shoes.
Running down the bush paths, through the tall swaying grass. Skipping to the side to choose a parallel one with better footing. Grass slapping my wrists, grass slapping my cheeks. Music playing aloud because headphones are constricting, and no one is around to care, anyway.
The way the lion on my hut stares at me, no matter what angle I approach it from. A modern jungle Mona Lisa? Just a familiar welcome home.
Greeting an amaama as I pass by her hut. She is weaving a reed mat. I stop and watch her for a while and she explains to me how she is using an old mosquito net for string. Nothing goes to waste here.
Looking both ways as I cross the river of tarmac to the tuck shops across the street. There are no cars, but it’s a habit I can’t break.
Standing on the porch of the clinic, elbows resting on the concrete railing, bathed in the mid day sun. Nothing to do but greet people as they come by and watch the kids playing by the pump.
Speaking to little kids in Lunda. She refuses to talk, even when I tease her for it. She hides in her older sister’s chitenge. The older girl smiles, answers for them both, knows not to be scared.
The goat exploring the inside of my hut leaves just as casually as she came in. No rush. Until she causes the broom to fall and runs away.
The crickets at night, the birds in the morning.
The stars. The sunsets. The early morning clouds which I mistake for fog through the window in my bedroom.
Silence which is never really silence. Sounds traveling over to me before going quiet again.