The woman embroiders in silence.
We
arrive on a Sunday. The airport, a sea of dust, swelters under the
midday heat. A dozy soldier flickers through our papers. Our luggage
disappears under a hundred helping hands. We do not have enough coins
and barter. The road, a riot of red dust, makes the trip slow and
heavy. Green, red and blue are the colours of our new country. The
city is not far away: at its entrance a flock of women in black
shuffle behind a black carriage. A silent weep traverses the air. The
horses, old and scrawny, wheeze along the humble road. The dust
settles imperceptibly over the women. In the car we feel our slow
death has just started.
Our
new house sobs with sounds we do not recognise. Mother drifts along
the corridors musing about the desert and yesterday’s lovers. We
clean, order and cook in silence. The dog grumbles at its meagre
fare, the frogs chant in the afternoon. They start slow and small, by
dusk a whirlwind of sounds drenches the senses. Mosquito towers
rumble over our head.
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