Mostly, Africa is home. And I do mean that in the broad sense of the continent. While the country may change, my ears and eyes bring in information through an African context. I am not hearing the same anymore. When I talk to my colleagues, I am often filtering though layers - and sometimes tuning out altogether- because the basis from which I try to relate has shifted completely. Often I simply do not arrive. We are no longer the same, those ex-patriots and I. Somewhere along the way I moved across boundaries and became less of an ex-pat and more of an immigrant. (The buzz around those terms is an ongoing debate and I"m not sure what I agree with or where I fall, but you can read about it here, here and here.)
It's something I have reflected on since moving to Africa- and possibly having to face the choice of fleeing in the name of conflict (there was this post in 2009.) In my current set-up, there's no question. We are here. Fleeing is not an option and there is no agency who can or will help us.
But I am good with that. We don't want to flee (or so I like to think. At least one of us Soumahs would probably jump at the chance to get out of here and I am trying to come to terms with that so if the opportunity presents itself, I will be lovingly supportive and not tearfully distraught.)
Every so often though, in the name of this blog and unknown future written representations- I try to see again through my outsider eyes. I try to get back that magic that Africa held when she was slightly unknown but ever enchanting. The past few weeks, as I have rounded the corner of my small dirt street and made my way home in the dark evening night, I am greeted with a sight that is surely "other," though for us it now just is.
You can almost tell time by it and more than once the boys have questioned why I don't join in- which brings a small smile to my face.
The house across the street (street feels like a big word for the small dirt path that separates us) is home to babies. I've been half-heartedly trying to count them- or at least be aware of how many there actually are- but when one of my observations noted another pregnant women I decided to just give up. There are a lot. 3 or 4. I heard the newborn baby cries and I see the mamas outside with month old cuties wrapped in their white blankets. I have not been able to determine what the house is- one thing I've learned about outside appearance- they give no clue as to inside inhabitants. I can't tell if the doorway leads to one apartment or many- if it is one family related or merely neighbors. What I know is there are babies, and they go to bed around 7.
I know this because if you round the corner between 7 and 8 you will see the women outside. They have the babies strapped to their backs and they are pacing, or rocking or just gazing at the moon. It is time for the babies to sleep so they take them outside and give them fresh air and quiet night filled only with far-away neighborhood sounds. I know enough now to suppose the women are not necessarily the moms, though perhaps they could be.
And I view this ritual from the future persepective. What memories will the babies hold of the cool night wind blowing in off the lagoon- soothing, refreshing, lulling them to sleep alongside the distant drums and steady rhythms of a hip-hop beat, calling children and barking dogs, men laughing and an occasional horn honking.
It's cozy and comforting. I understand why the boys want me to take Mbalia out to walk through the night sounds as she transitions into the world of dreaming with nature and man in it's most harmonious time.
I don't do it. It is one of those bridges I can't be expected to cross. We've begin developing our own nighttime routine- sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn't.
But I do enjoy the sight- the babies out for their evening stroll while their mamas talk on the phone or text someone or simply gaze out at the universe, contemplating the miracle of night.
