Wind chimes and stillness
- if you listen closely, you can hear the night breathe -
a cool breeze, carrying the murmurs of barely distant traffic, meets hunched shoulders.
My mind rewinds to the bright daytime busyness of Abuja city streets:
a pulsating sea of danfos jostling for space, commuters spilling out and climbing in, street hawkers gliding around them, their wares balanced above the heads or else held and waved about.
Next the market place,
surrounded by the urgent sounds of developing country commerce,
the shouts and calls, the hiss ('sss') followed by
"hey, customer! come! see! see!"
I weave in and out, dodging barrow boys, buyers and sellers,
trying not to break stride and all the while replying "no, is ok".
Occasionally stopping, trying to find a balance between indifference and recognition
(it isn't always easy) - And finally, arriving at my destination, greeted with a smile,
a regular customer. Hausa pleasantries and crumpled Naira notes exchanged for goods:
Spring onions, green beans, peppers, beet root, fresh basil and sweet sweet mangos.
My taste buds hum with expectation as I fill my bags. Arms and shoulders strain,
legs stride with intent and purpose, the bright hot sun beats down.
And then, in a blink, the vision passes and I am left gazing into a screen filled with words -
Memories of a place, in which I am no longer physically present, stare back at me.
Yet still I linger, part grieving widow/part runaway bride -
At times, also and perhaps, an emotional exile existing between states of mind and being -
Here and there, I am and am not, and so I find myself - between places.
