A note, on the eve of my departure from Africa (and my entry to India!)

Dear Africa,

Sometimes I am embarrassed to think about you, to think of how little I know you though you tore yourself open to me. Your beauty is grotesque. Looking at you is like peering under the door of some broken down brothel. Was it me who made you this way? Tattered and torn and draped in chains? Or am I merely a witness, a lucky witness, who saw the patches of glory through the holes in your dress and the exquisite dreams in your spilled blood? I feel like I can help you, like I can lift you by the armpits onto my back, like I can cradle you and sing you dark murky lullabies.

But then I recall, dear Africa, that it was you who has been cradling me those nights. I lay awake wondering where I was, but the heat pressed its damp palm on my mouth to stop me from asking. Mosquito nets have become my palaces; water has become my gold. Sometimes you are an empty vessel, Africa, and sometimes I feel as if there isn't any room.

I closed my eyes and felt at home. But you taste so different and your sounds are so bizarre! Still, there is something familiar in your voice, your voice like molasses, like thorns, like waking up in a cold sweat. One morning I woke up and forgot who I was. Your have bewitched me, Africa, you have become everything I thought I knew. It seems as though my memories would gladly give up the ghost for you.

But, sweet old Africa, I am shaking off your silky robes, and like a fickle lover I promise to be back. Little do you know that I am terrified of you. Little do I know that you have stolen my heart.

I wish I could dance for you but my body isn't big enough. I wish I could sing but my voice would blow away. So I'll pin this note to your dusty lapel and hope that someday, when we have forgotten each other, you will find it and call me on home.

Love
(Sincerely?)
(Yours Truly?)
(Always?)

Sadye

Mama Siyaya's Snuff Box

Mama Siyaya's snuff box wasn't actually a box: it was a dirty plastic bottle that she kept underneath her left breast. She would remove it once an hour, gruffly lifting her dripping bosom and fishing out the bottle, unscrewing the lid and pouring a small brown pile into her palm. She would take a pinch and sniff it quickly into her left nostril, then right, then left again, like clock work or something equally efficient. The whole process took less than 2 minutes, but it stole my attention every time: everytime she lifted her breast, every time she took a pinch. Nothing about her demeanor changed afterwards and she would continue rocking her shoulders and humming a tune, stopping every so often to spit or burp. The last morning I was to be with her in her cow dung hut she asked if I was cicumcised. When I said no, she laughed and laughed.

In public, she kept her snuff hidden somewhere in the folds of her dress. Her left breast was too conspicuous.