painted air

The only woman at the table. Losing my sense of foreign-ness, mzungu existence-- still from another world, suddenly feeling exposed as my new identity comes under the spotlight.

Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I will speak. I will sit here under the dark sky with you. I will consider the world and the small moments after midnight, I will breathe the settling dust and fumes from the business of daylight.

Mombasa deserted. Fires on the corners, tuktuk radios sing, hang on the door with Bwana, three men on a concrete bench, petrol station a taxi rank, old man sitting still in the shady doorway, friends speak through dark quietness.

To my room. It still smells of new paint. And the windows are wide open. I close the slats. How to uninvite the flying devils about to feast on my legs. Lie on my back, shoulders are red and stiff. Trip to the bathroom confirms the diagnosis, sunburn. Unpadlock my room, back to staring at the fan.

Fifteen minutes of emptiness, my self slowly expanding, feeling out the space, surprised still that it can spread and not meet anything. Keeps going, almost to the walls, but stops, hangs there, savouring the past days. So tangled, they've mixed each other's colours. Unanchored, floating up to the fan wildly swinging round, turning the painted air.

The light should be turned out. Put the cigarette outside the window. Why did he leave his cigarette in here?

And the lights go out. The thoughts, the self, float down, land, and I lie still.