Mornin’

This morning there is a woman riding through town shouting greetings from the back of her bicycle. She wears a pink head scarf that matches the long skirt she somehow avoids catching in the rusty chain that spins as she peddles. I try to picture myself as her, replacing her accent with my own (which sticks out even more when I speak Dagbani), and her scarf with a bulky helmet. While most of the community members sitting in their various gathering places have probably been up for hours, I have only just managed to pull myself out from under the bug net that encircles the small mattress that stands as the only furniture within the four neon green walls of my tiny home. It is 7:33am. Still yet to happen this morning are the sound of the goats wailing on the path outside my window that looks out across the road at the town I am supposed to be becoming a part of. The physical presence of the road standing in for the mental and emotional block I face most days. Trying to take the eleven steps (I counted late one afternoon while most of the potential onlookers were occupied by their prayers) to cross the dusty, potholed expanse first involves climbing the small mountain of anxieties my mind has conjured up about how and why I should not be where I am.

Also still yet to happen is the voices of the three small boys who play with drums and sticks in the wide expanses behind my house most mornings. As they head off to whatever battle they have conjured up to face that day, they wander past my window and shout good morning to the white madame inside who has captured their attention and most times will even respond to their assessment of the morning even if she hasn’t been awake long enough to make that decision yet. I thank whoever is watching out for me that they have realized that if they do this morning ritual before the sun is high in the sky, they won’t be treated to the response they so desire.

Eventually I may learn to wake with the rising sun that streams through my curtain-less windows, to fetch my water when the sky is still coming to life, to rise with the heart of the community. But for now, my head still hangs heavy above my shoulders as the kettle in the corner brings to life the whistling water that will turn the brown grounds I coveted all the way from America into coffee. As I sit and sip from my one metal mug, taking stock of any new aches and pains that have arisen overnight, the fan spins wildly overhead in an attempt to take an edge off the humidity which lays over everything like a heavy winter blanket. The sky is slowly darkening, the third rain storm in as many days looms just to the east, creeping slowly along, people ready their buckets alongside their houses where they know the rain collects, building up their stores for when the sky is nothing but blue.

I should do the same.