On Sundays, the muddle of life’s milestones pass by the office, singing and wailing and clapping. Yesterday I stood at my vantage point next to the wall to watch pots of stew and lentils, trays of rice and dowry boxes bobbing along to a marriage balanced on invisible heads. Then, three young boys sitting on shoulders, surrounded by singing and clapping as they innocently made their way to be circumcised. Later, the boys are carried back, more quietly now, just missing a funeral procession wailing its way in the other direction.
When the Sunday sun sets I imagine all these lives irrevocably changed by all these ceremonious beginnings, and endings. I lie under my mosquito net hoping the electricity holds out just a little longer, and the mangoes don’t clud onto me as I sleep. The red sky will wake me up at 6.30, after I’ve slept through allah akbar at allah only knows what time. Goodnight.
When the Sunday sun sets I imagine all these lives irrevocably changed by all these ceremonious beginnings, and endings. I lie under my mosquito net hoping the electricity holds out just a little longer, and the mangoes don’t clud onto me as I sleep. The red sky will wake me up at 6.30, after I’ve slept through allah akbar at allah only knows what time. Goodnight.
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