If I know a song of Africa, of the giraffe and the African new moon lying on her back, of the plows in the fields and the sweaty faces of the coffee pickers, does Africa know a song of me? Will the air over the plain quiver with a color that i have had on, or the children invent a game in which my name is, or the full moon throw a shadow over the gravel of the drive that was like me, or will the eagle of the Ngong Hills look out for me?
I miss Africa. Not a day goes by that I don't think of it. I miss so many things. I miss the extremes of Africa. Like the deep green and lush undergrowth juxtaposed against the barren rocky veld. I miss the wide open spaces. The big blue cloudless skies. I miss watching the buildup to the daily highveld summer afternoon thunderstorms that dump millions of gallons of rain and hail amidst a breathtaking display of lightning and thunder. Then within 10 -20 minutes the clouds disappear, the blue sky reappears alongside the smell of wet earth. That smell is irreplaceable.
The desert, that overwhelming emptiness, I miss the huge African sun. Elsewhere I experience a whispering lost feeling. But in Africa my internal compass knows I am where I should be.
I was hoping to return this summer but it seems I can't. Hopefully, next year.