The kid danced like he had just won the best dance competition on school drama day. He twisted his feet like he had twigs for ankles. The way he jumped with no care to the drum beat was reminiscent of wind blowing through the forest! He was free. He was really free.
Today, we drove close to ninety kilometers out of town for a traditional African wedding. Like anything else, there was pomp, excitement, dancing and celebration.
There’s something about villages in Africa and tradition. Going to the village in Africa is reminiscent to going back home. Home, where the heart is. Where the rhythm and sounds of birds wake you up. The cows mooing early in the morning because they want to be milked. The grass glistening as the morning dew dries.
When I think about the village, I think about cows grazing, and the chicken running around the compound pecking the dust, and the farm dog laying lazily under the big mango tree in the compound grabbing at flies. I think about the young children roping the goats to go and graze, and hear their plans of climbing the neighbour’s guava trees. I see the young girls pick their pots and pans heading to the river to fetch water. The mothers head to the gardens and the fathers to the farm.
The village is home of the sunsets and waning hills. Of winding roads and dusty foot paths! The village is home, my home! And driving to the village, leaving civilization behind, as the houses and towns thin and the forests become greener, the breeze becomes cooler, I can’t help but get excited for the freedom.
We are truly free: the village is where we are free!