When the memories fade and I can’t see the colors quite as brightly anymore I will not forget this place in time. 19 years old and living fully. Dreaming but not the American Dream. A dream much better than I could have ever imagined. Because from now on I will always know what it feels like to be alive. From now on my hips will feel the rhythm of the African music coming from the oversize speakers in the road side stand selling second hand shoes. From now on my ears will know the laughs of children, an intoxicating sound meant to be bottled. From now on my hand will know the dirty...

Dear Kubu Cafe, Your wifi sucks, But your milkshakes could cure any dreary day. I love your mismatching pink and green walls, The comfy leather couches that beat my bunk bed with the thin mattress any day, The dark wood table, And the way the large window in the front lets in just enough light, but not too much as it gives me snippets of the lives of people walking into the Shoprite next door. I like the random assortment of tribal bowls and banners on the walls… They kind of remind me of the pattern I have been living in. But its not you Kubu Cafe that makes me smile today. Its the faces...

When they meet me I want them to see me as I saw the African children; love shining out of their faces, smiles so bright that the whole area surrounding them seems to radiate it. I want them to see me like the trees along our walk to town do. The way they whisper as the rain pounds them almost as if they are making a silent covident to protect my team and I from the drops falling from the once sunny sky. I want to be seen the way the rain drops saw me when they finally did touch my pale skin; giving me refreshment from the heat. I want to be look at the way the doorway of my guest house looked...

And that’s when I remember. It comes on an overnight plane to South Africa after a day spent dancing the streets of London, that’s when I remember that he never loved me the way I deserved and that the way he held me never was with a sense of forever, but a sense of need. That he wouldn’t have ever been able to give me this. What I gave myself. This kind of love that holds me when the plane rocks my ruby red seat and a baby balls in the background. The kind of love that soared between London sunrays for the street musician spinning a tune that spoke to my soul. The love that...

It was on the fount porch of my guest house Feburary 7th that I found God in the Zambian rain. You see the Zambian rain is not the dreary kind, it has this beauty to it. The way the drops are bigger than they appear, and when they hit the ground they create a spalsh that ripples through the maze of oversized puddles hiding in the cracks in our concrete yard.  And the sky doesn’t get dark, its instead this grey blue color where there is this odd sense of light still shining through the clouds. All of it together almost calls you to dance in it no matter how soaked your black t-shirt...

It was on the fount porch of my guest house Feburary 7th that I found God in the Zambian rain. You see the Zambian rain is not the dreary kind, it has this beauty to it. The way the drops are bigger than they appear, and when they hit the ground they create a spalsh that ripples through the maze of oversized puddles hiding in the cracks in our concrete yard.  And the sky doesn’t get dark, its instead this grey blue color where there is this odd sense of light still shining through the clouds. All of it together almost calls you to dance in it no matter how soaked your black t-shirt...