She walks around mumbling, speaking only what she knows, Dholuo. I sometimes trail behind her, not intentionally, but because even at the ripe old age of 70 she walks with a spring in her step and at a pace I can not keep up with. Her words pour out of her, sometimes they are lively, as if engaged in a debate about the state of the nation. Sometimes, she sounds hollow, as if reciting the words of an old adage. But she talks, to no one in particular, but to someone present, here and now. Someone she knows to listen, and who I imagine responds, completes her sentences even. She is seldom alone, although she is a lonely figure usually.
Today she knocks at my door, her face a beautiful shade of burnt oak. Her wrinkles do not Continue reading “Never gone.”