Snippets

"This is the story of how we begin to remember. This is the powerful pulsing of love in our veins. These are the roots of rhythm and the roots of rhythm remain..."

-Paul Simon

Sitting with four older women and a girl about twelve or thirteen, who passes me the baby she's holding. I hold him for a while, and every so often he looks up at me, seemingly intrigued by the color of my skin, not fearful as some children here can be, but completely in awe. He is about the age of my nephew back home.

A black cow with a rope trailing after it canters down the hard-packed red clay road. Mama shies away as it cuts off the road and along the houses. A woman walks nonchalantly after it a few minutes later.

Helping (more like watching) Mama Rukia make dinner: tambi, which is a sweet pasta dish. You take bundles of dry what I think are rice noodles, break them, cook them, then fry them in oil and sugar. Needless to say this is pretty tasty.

Sitting as it grows dark, the chickens and ducks tucked into their coops across the courtyard, Mama lights an oil lamp as we eat dinner. She finishes first. "Nimeshiba," I am full. I finish soon after. Baba Raishid fixes something with the electric lights inside. Mama snuffs the oil lamp out with the palm of her hand.