I remember, no have forgotten, the evenings when night fell at 3pm. A lonely child on the streets of America squinting at his watch and wondering where all the daylight went. Then there were days of killing cold at lonely bus stations, while waiting for the scheduled bus. Dull summer evenings. Bright afternoons in the face of a deceptively bright sun. What happened? It all seemed like a dream. Did it ever happen? Was I, a few months ago, a curious face in the jungle of shops, brands and malls? I pour water on my face. No, it didn’t happen. It must have been a dream. Did I really fly for almost twenty-four hours over a dozen countries last fall, and returned again via the same route the cool harmattan evenings? My new iPod says yes. My old Dell says no.

It’s cool here, like the temperature of a cool spring, and I dreamt. I arrived in Edwardsville again and started looking for familiar spots. I looked at my phone and there were two time zones. Darn! That always happened. There was no one else to speak to so I called yarinya and she too was not available. She was in a different time zone. Am I in America? I ask. No, I’m here dreaming out the malaria in my flesh. I’m drenched in sweat, on a bed with yellow covering. There is no fan to provide the desired utopia. Nepa! And it’s May, in Ibadan, the breeze wheezing along with the soft clouds and burnt wisps of grass from a faraway place. What manner of dream!

I’m up now to put on the generator. Time to blog.

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