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