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When I stepped out of the plane the first thing that hit me was the hot air blowing gently across the runway, the sweet smell of culture and the dusty aroma in the air filled my nostrils. That's when I knew I have reached home. I could not wait to pass through the endless and tiring security checks I had to go through before being allowed out of the airport. After an excruciating hour which felt like eternity, I was finally allowed to exit the arrivals lounge and into the crowded waiting area where my family stood eagerly waiting to welcome me.
Hassan I screamed! Would you please hurry up we are going to be late for our dinner reservation. I never thought my boyfriend would take longer than me to get dressed. He emerges from the room dressed in an all black tailored suit, pink shirt and black tie. At six 6’1 he was a gorgeous sight, my oh my, was it worth the wait.A good 200 -pounds of pure solid muscle on his frame. He was a man whose presence was seen and felt. Are you ready? He asked. Chipu nyemeh nga ma laj lolu dipi kanj mangla harr?? Okay baby lets not argue lets get moving by the way, that red dress of yours is a killer tight in all the right places… I smile, if you’re trying to flatter me hassan Jones please do continue because it is working…
He opens the passenger seat of his brand new all white X6 “his 2nd baby” I enter and he gets in the driver seat and our journey begins.
In my thirty five (35) years as an aid worker, I have seen and heard many stories but none has reached the depths of my soul as much as this one that my fingers tell on this day I have marked on my wall calendar as “life-changing”. For twenty five (25) years I have remembered this day with the piety of the people of old times ironically with a serious dose of alcohol to calm my nerves or the occasional wrap of something heavy depending on the part of the world I find myself in – today however is different from the others.
When I was sent to the desert area of Kisham twenty five (25) years ago as an aid worker to help those affected by the war, it was a task like the others I had taken up years before but I was not prepared for the effect that this war was to have on my life.
The engine purrs along, its steady thumping forms a song.
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May 25, 2009
Borom Sarret Review I saw Borom Sarret by Ousmane Sembene last night. According to wikipedia it is considered "the first film ever made in Africa by a black African". It takes place in Dakar, Senegal, and is about a horse-and-cart driver trying to eke out a living. It is a short film, barely 20 minutes long, yet in that time it manages to pack in quite a lot of themes. A black and white film, it opens with a stark view of a shining white mosque building, its profile cutting into the skyline (a beautiful, beautiful shot - and this is Ousmane pre-color).
May 07, 2008
Opposite the Mosque on Independence Drive, outside the building that houses the Ministry of Trade, Industry, and Employment, there sits a cobbler. Watch, as he deftly inserts a long needle trailing its thread into the side of a leather shoe, and then carefully pulls it out the other side. Around him and on the ground are a pile of such shoes, mouths wide open, waiting to be mended. There is also the other cruft of his trade: the leather patches and sole replacements, the long needles which he uses, spools of (predominantly black and white) thread, tins of polish and brushes. He is a permanent fixture here, like the old men who sit on the other side of the road, Men of the Mosque awaiting the muezzin's call to the next prayer.
May 07, 2008
Opposite the Mosque on Independence Drive, outside the building that houses the Ministry of Trade, Industry, and Employment, there sits a cobbler. Watch, as he deftly inserts a long needle trailing its thread into the side of a leather shoe, and then carefully pulls it out the other side. Around him and on the ground are a pile of such shoes, mouths wide open, waiting to be mended. There is also the other cruft of his trade: the leather patches and sole replacements, the long needles which he uses, spools of (predominantly black and white) thread, tins of polish and brushes. He is a permanent fixture here, like the old men who sit on the other side of the road, Men of the Mosque awaiting the muezzin's call to the next prayer.
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