At a wedding we walk after the decorated car taking the bride to her groom’s house, only moonlight, stars and women chattering in the night, a lot of things I don’t understand. I’m home in my skin. Me and Sarah both have to wee and ask one of the cousins if its alright to sneak out – it is. Only a man from the other family is bringing water now, so we will have to wait. And to drink first (omg omg omg). We share a bag of water.
Then people emerge with large plates of food, we are mercifully excused. We wash our hands and squeeze deliciously oily rice into balls with our fingers, meat skewers and garlicky potatoes.
I wanna take photos of the fantastic hair-does and clothes people wear, but I’m already the odd white girl who doesn’t speak french. One of the cousins offer to find me a husband “Burkina is good or not?” “it is really good” of course, she nods, its settled then.
The whiteness is so weird, kids in the street enthusiastically call out to me “Nasaraaaa nasaraaaaaa… NASARAAAAAAA!!” (white person). Its official then: Im a freak! Im used to feeling different, now I wear it on my skin.
The rumors about the Ouagadougian traffic are highly overstated, it moves in the same way as a water current, fast, elegant and with a plurality of mini currents in harmonic chaos. Although when commuting during rush hour I do catch myself thinking about death a lot, still I’m not driving myself (yet) so I am allowed to close my eyes and just hang on tight.
Two short flights of 5 hours is a small way, but none of the multiple Ikea-neurosises which were gripping at my thoughts in Copenhagen climbed on board. So I am far away. Far enough.
I feel I should explore more on my own, but lots of days during the week I do nothing – the laziness is not from Ouaga, its entirely my own, it comes from slowly being reabsorbed into my skin.
For a few days I keep myself awake asking if the decisions I made were the best ones. I do exploratory meditations which bring more questions than answers.
I start finding un-dealt-with emotions from the last year emerging, things which weren’t safe to feel close to the scene of the events. Definitely not safe to feel from inside the neurotic Ikea-land of my mind, a place where I’m eager to decorate my inside with standardized, assembly-manual-accompanied niceness.
The gentle, red dust is a reassuring setting for letting lose furious waves.
As they crash I find shiny grains of love hidden in the sand, even behind hatred shines outrageous warmth.