I remember Africa.

Sun-drenched days,
Sweltering nights of still, equatorial heat,
Blistering suffocation of a land with no air.
Sweat rolls down your neck and back at all times.

"Mzungu, mzungu."
White person.
Foreigner.
It is the chant of small children crouching in the white-hot, pebbly sand.
Behind thick, moist shrubbery in the bush.
Fearful, curious white eyeballs emerge from the shadows.

Mzungu.
It means you have money. Because of the color of your skin.

The market smells of burning trash and frying meats.
Goats roam free, weaving between the speeding cars.
The ground is uneven, rocky.
You must watch your feet.
You must watch your bag.
You must watch the people.
Your eyes must be everywhere at once.

A bicycle made of driftwood.
Water jugs made of gas tanks.
Shoes made of old tires.

All is broken here, but not destroyed.

They eke out their existance quietly, without complaint.

Buildings peel under the weight of hot, heavy dryness.
The thick forests drink down the water in the air,
Then begin to gulp us down.
My mzungu-skin blisters under the harshness of the sun.
Small children reach for my head, marvelling at the feeling of mzungu-hair.

The faces of these people are furrowed in pain and exhaustion.
The fatigue is with them through the night and is waiting for them come morning.
Darkened by work, small, stick-like grandmothers cripple themselves with large, heavy loads.

There is a dull, dead, animal desperation in their dark gazes.
They know our type. Our color.
Mzungus have ravaged their land like locusts.
They come with foreign passports and loaded wallets,
Forcing their European power and manipulation
On a people who will do anything for food and provision.
One man's vacation is another man's deal with the devil.
Stockholm has come to the shores of Africa, bringing its Syndrome along.

My students hold my mzungu-hands,
Leading us along the winding, rocky dirt road.
Our long skirts billow in the hot, dry, coastal wind.
You are different, they tell us often.
Not like the other mzungus.

This is a compliment.

Perhaps this is our purpose here.
To slowly, gradually undo the damage
Of a Thousand Year Evil
On the shores of Africa.