
In September Zimbabwe feels dry. Dry and dusty. Dust that covers your clothing, plasters your neck and arms, coats your hair until you feel like you’ve become as hard and worn as the dirt roads that carry you into the bush.
It feels like calloused hands grasping yours. Like the strong arms of a wizened old woman hugging you roughly. Like

It feels like the unrelenting firmness of timber spanning two

It feels like the surprising satisfaction of the Bread of Life in the midst of hunger.
No comments:
Post a Comment