It’s only been a few days but already my vacation so far consists of deliberate early mornings scanning through murky pages of a certain Chinua Achebe or a Kathryn Stockett novel that at some parts causes my chocolate brown skin to prickle. Intervals are short trips into the town being chauffeured around by my grandmother in her favourite white van, both, beaming with age. More often than not, she’s shouting. As a result of an act of disobedience of some sort on my behalf. Sometimes I just stare at her blankly with so many words like daggers swinging her way in my head, but I make sure I keep them tucked safely inside me. I think to myself- she won’t be around forever and surely I’ll miss even the shriller versions of her voice one day. How could I forget the intensified Marlboro cravings? My bratty little sisters aren’t little witches after all. They are blooming into young girls. This makes me smile. I think of our mother. My fears, hopes and dreams… On my music playlist: Jimmy Dludlu, Saint Heron, Lianne La Havas, James Blake, FKA Twigs and John Mayer are relentless. The constant feels. Hunger also seems to be trending, out here trying to become the next best thing in my life since skinny jeans. Chewing, digestion, anything to do with the act of eating in fact makes me anxious now. I’m getting so comfortable with being showered with compliments to my figure that is much skinnier than it used to be. I feel so much lighter. Pun intended. I’ve been spending hours in bed. My room.
It’s the small things… I am content. I am home.
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