I had a vision this evening. I saw the children chasing after our white, dusty mini-bus. The black children with no shoes, begging us to stop. These boys are always running and they grow into the men of Africa, always left behind. Our white bus is abandoning them, but we can steal a photo before we go. We leave them alone in the dust with their tears. This continent is playing a game of catch-me-if-you-can with the West, but they will always be the losers in this game. Our bus rolls on in the dusk.
The trees stand singly, blurring into one another if you focus on all of them at once. The grey, black, white, dusty trees with a shrub every few metres. These trees are bare and slender. In the distant hills they point up to the sky, to the first shy stars of the evening. Look they say, look there is hope for this rolling, starving, broken country. Don’t give up, because we won’t.
Can I commit myself to this sort of life? Do I have it in me? What can I do that would satisfy? I have a vision, years from now, of a lonely bachelor living in this strange world. Can I sacrifice the West for a chance to be fulfilled?
I think of our mini-bus and tears come to my eyes. Give me your hand, brother, I’ll help if I can. I have no money to give, but maybe I can give you something else. I know it’s not easy. I know you are broken and afraid. But if you take my hand I’ll do what I can. Consider it a promise.
It makes more sense now, if I realize that I’m answering the echoed call. The dance is in me, I see your smile, I see your face. I’m not a saint, and I don’t want to be. I just want to find meaning in this confusing world of smoke and mirrors.
