Body in Motion

The air is dry here. So dry that the hairs in my nose stand at attention when I inhale. So dry that the skin on my cheeks feels taut a few minutes after putting on lotion. Still two months left before the rains. I remember Kinshasa, where my skin, my bathtowel, the air couldn’t absorb a drop more. Each breath was dense and weighty and thick with the constant perspiration of the jungle.

I met up with a group at a bar the other night. I chatted with a woman who’s ‘yaah’ slid as no one’s but a South African’s does. She’s been in Malawi most of her life. Her daughter’s going into secondary school this year. She doesn’t look much older than I am; I realise she’s probably not.

The roads here are narrow and unlit, the drivers slow and absent. There is no fury, no honking, no outrage, no rush. Side roads remain unnamed. The pace is consistent but not mindful. The colors are faded but the sky itself is sharpened by the sun, which turns fiery pink each evening as it slips through the dust to the horizon.