Places sink into me, routines form around my actions like crust on freshly baking bread. Walking through the moist darkness after an evening deluge, the stars obscured by lingering clouds and the smell of sorghum home-brew floating headily in the air, I adjusted my eyes do the darkness and dodged puddles in the ruts of the road.
“mzungu come here,” a bicycle boda driver motioned to me and I curtly answered, “no mzungu” as I climbed side-saddle onto another waiting boda. He was unsure of where to go but we managed, crashing lightly into the back of another bicycle at the main road, narrowly missing a crazy motorcycle a little beyond that.
He steered us onto the feeder street, the purpose of which is lost on me. A bevy of mutatus loaded green bananas, boxes, and passengers; the doors flung open and people milling about busy lifting and staring. We stopped abruptly as he gestured halfheartedly for them to move.
I assume it was on purpose. Just shy of the restaurant, it was easier to walk.
Settled into my chair, picking at the remains of my dinner while the cricket match and Ugandan music vied for the attention I was lavishing on my NaNoWriMo pages (still unclear of where it is headed, it walks steadily none the less) I chatted with acquaintances and enjoyed a night away from home.
I walked briskly, the street emptier than usual, the rain or the hour, difficult to discern the culprit. My sweater scrunched and forgotten in my dinner chair, the coolness that searched it out to escort me to dinner later deserted me when my fish tikka and naan arrived.
Side-saddling home, half-way there before I realize that I’m in pants and could straddle the seat for better leverage; but habit, that crispy crusted habit, sat me demurely to the side, holding my bag and maintaining my balance unaided. A ride through iganga as I settle into it and it settles deeply into me.
I can see adn smell it. I love it.