Losing light

Yesterday my parents did their best to explain to me that today someone was coming to remove the lights. Midway through our Swahili lessons, my baba came to summon me to unlock my door so that the crew could remove the light in my room.

My mama explained to me that even though the unit is solar-powered, they still have to pay more than 10,000 shillings (about $5) for it each month. Simple math tells us that that's more than a million shillings over the course of ten years. That's a lot of money in Tanzania.

Sitting in the back courtyard with my mama and aunt in the dark, the kerosene lamp perched on the floor just inside the hall of the house. My aunt teaches me a new way to respond when someone calls my name, and eventually walks back to her house.

We wait for the coconut rice to finish. The lamp casts a golden light in the hall, illuminating the walls that are rust-colored halfway up, then a smoky blue on the upper portion. Everything is dark except the hallway, the light spilling out onto the stony stoop, and the sky that is almost exactly the same color as the hallway's upper walls. The three doors in the hallway all have breezy curtains that hang in front of them, and the one in front of my mama's room billows gently back and forth. Our kitten plays behind the lamp, hunting insects and shadows.

My mama gets up to fetch the platter from the small table in the hallway behind the back door. She pauses for a moment in the doorway, and the light shines through the many-colored stripes that border her skirt.

I look up. The stars are brighter than ever.