a nostalgic celebration in warm harmattan winds
It was the one holiday in the year our parents let us be a part of.
Imagine that life for a second.
It fills up the potholes and stripped-away concrete in the streets and makes an already rough commute sluggish. In the summer, it rains almost every afternoon, as if the city itself hits a breaking point right around 2 p.m. — “all right, it’s just too hot” — and gives up and breaks down in storms.
He looked up and caught my eye and we both smiled at each other. I made a mental note to check missed connections when I got home.
The charity shops, the betting shops and the bars were open.
We passed by an accident and my driver simply shook his head.
Recently, a tube of stretchy bandage-like fabric made its way into my life.
I was reading about the settler frontier and genocide of indigenous people while the loudspeaker blasted “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.”