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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