There's a funny light that comes from dodgy electricity and cheap bulbs. The red dust of the day also seems to remain, agitated, trapped in the lit air. The voices from the darkness color the night with stories of their days. The voices of invisible men and women.
Smoke rises, we smell the roasting meat as we ride, two wheeling it without helmets, along the dirt road to the MSF compound.
"Bonne nuit! Singuila, merci Roland - a demain! 8h hein?"
"Oui Florence, reposes toi bien!" as he revs off into the darkness.
I enter. Tired. Tired of the noise, tired of the dust, tired of the darkness, tired of the heat, tired of the bites and the ravenous looks on my white skin, tired of being far, of not understanding. Tired of the meddling in a war that is not mine.
The sweat, now dry, tattoos my skin.
I sit on the moth eaten sofa outside. The glow of my laptop buzzes at me.
I never smoked. Yet I tear open the pack of local menthols for the third time that month. I take one - look up through the trees exhaling the smoke.
You walk out of the neon lit kitchen, as I close my screen.
We never talked about work. Instead, we shared a beer, spoke about the stars. About the darkness and the light. About music and latex. We spoke about birthdays and promised to celebrate life more often together. We spoke.
You asked for the light, and at the end of your cigarette we went to bed, each our own way.
A friendship born.
Smoke rises, we smell the roasting meat as we ride, two wheeling it without helmets, along the dirt road to the MSF compound.
"Bonne nuit! Singuila, merci Roland - a demain! 8h hein?"
"Oui Florence, reposes toi bien!" as he revs off into the darkness.
I enter. Tired. Tired of the noise, tired of the dust, tired of the darkness, tired of the heat, tired of the bites and the ravenous looks on my white skin, tired of being far, of not understanding. Tired of the meddling in a war that is not mine.
The sweat, now dry, tattoos my skin.
I sit on the moth eaten sofa outside. The glow of my laptop buzzes at me.
I never smoked. Yet I tear open the pack of local menthols for the third time that month. I take one - look up through the trees exhaling the smoke.
You walk out of the neon lit kitchen, as I close my screen.
We never talked about work. Instead, we shared a beer, spoke about the stars. About the darkness and the light. About music and latex. We spoke about birthdays and promised to celebrate life more often together. We spoke.
You asked for the light, and at the end of your cigarette we went to bed, each our own way.
A friendship born.
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