Take Me to the Village

When I think of home; I have two consecutive thoughts.

1. I am of 7 years, walking with a distant cousin; a young girl near to me in age. Each with an arm draped over a black calf between us. Almost equal to us in height. We tread along a winding river, clear and blue - that lay between mountains.

I am of 7 years, stopping at the Yurts of strangers cooking lamb with carrots and rice. Feeding children, a young girl and a visitor.

2. I am of many ages in the East African Bush. In complete wonder at how it differs up the coast; as do its people. I see a family cooking a meal over a fire. Chai between palms and a stew made by a mother out of something my father helped catch:

A fish,

A Guinea Foul,

An impala.

Nights on cots or dirt floors.

QUESTION

Do you think you know the places you’ve been to or were you just a part of the postcard?

ANSWER

When I step atop new lands - take me to the village.

I won’t remember lights; they can be blinding.

To see the Strip here; in the city where I live is like seeing a film set and equating fabrication to reality. To accept this colorfully constructed distraction as an honest representation of what it is to live beyond the show, when the lights are off and no one’s watching.

No -

You cannot see the show and fool yourself into thinking you now know the life of the actors.

So- I beg of you,

When we travel,

Take me to the village.