Countless nights I have sat outside under the moon and stars at my amayi’s house. While village night life goes on around me, I quietly eat my nsima, listening to the rolling Yao language of my family and watching the sky. An hour can go by without speaking and many times my amayi has asked if I am sleeping. But no, I am alert; sometimes wandering through my thoughts but always staying in the present. I just watch and listen, not understanding the words but soaking in the mood, intonation, and night. Children sing loudly and play games, fires flare up and die down, the cat rubs up against me before he is shooed away by Amayi. My young brother sleeps on the mat beside me, steadily breathing and sometimes stirring. I look up, noticing a satellite or shooting star which I sometimes point out but often observe silently and make a wish that will seem silly by morning. All this done in the anonymous darkness of night; passersby don’t know I am here, Amayi’s visitors cant stare, I can pull my skirt up past my knees to better feel the coolness of the night. Peace.
Later, I will pull myself up from the mat, slip on my shoes and walk home in the warm night air. Wishing my amayi good night, sleep well, sweet dreams, I will promise to see her again tomorrow and slipping my hands into my pockets I walk 50 ft before she shouts at me to turn my torch on. I comply but only until she is out of sight. On the road, I dodge bikes and pass lone travelers, all of whom I would greet in the day. But at night, the rules change. I no longer feel obligated to greet others and I feel free as I l walk by the light of the moon to my house.
I walk past the borehole where a lone woman pumps her final bucket of water until the break of day tomorrow. Someone calls out to me in the dark, to which I respond the last greeting of the day. Walking past the big tree in the clearing before my house, I shine my light, as always, into the branches hoping to see the eyes of a cat illuminated by the light. After that, I walk quickly through the school grounds and arriving at my house, I turn on my torch, unlock the door and enter inside, hurrying to locate the candles and match to make light. Quietly, I brush my teeth, undress and get in bed, tucking the net tightly around me and open my book. The day is done.
It’s never too early to think about the Third Goal. Check out Peace Corps Experience: Write & Publish Your Memoir. Oh! If you want a good laugh about what PC service was like in a Spanish-speaking country back in the 1970’s, read South of the Frontera: A Peace Corps Memoir.
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