I’m Going to Africa
I leave for the 13 hour flight on the 24th. And I am petrified. First there is the issue of the abuse I suffered there as a child when my family lived there from 1982 – 1984. I’m only now feeling like I’m okay enough with everything that happened to go visit. Secondly, I have no idea what to expect. My memory of what it was like is outdated. I remember constant electrical power outages, having running water some days and others having to go to the water pump downstairs. I remember surviving malaria. I remember sunshine, and cabs. I remember delicious food. I remember paved roads in the city and unpaved roads on long trips. I remember flawless indoor plumbing and an expensive water softener in each of the houses with marble staircases and floors. I remember toilets that didn’t flush and being expected to use them without vomiting. I remember people living on the side of the road, in makeshift shelters. I remember being able to smell the heavy morning mist carrying a floral scent that made me feel high each morning. I remember masquerades (not in the traditional sense of the word– they’re like roaming street carnivals). I remember parties where the streets would be blocked off that lasted for days. I remember seeing a tank go down the street and feeling the air go from democratic to militarized. I remember my mother conflicted, my father fearless, them apart, them together. I remember not seeing a person