Sunday afternoons, Lilongwe style
The common image of Africa is of desert and red sand. Maybe that's true of some parts - the Sahelian and Sahara regions, for instance - and red is certainly a major part of the African palette. But green is a much bigger part. My experience of Africa has primarily been one of greenery dripping with rain, and the thick smell of flowers in the air. Even in cities like Abuja, which are more akin to Milton Keynes than anywhere else, trees and bushes and ferns are abundant. In a place like Lilongwe - lazy and sprawling - it feels like the city is barely hours old, freshly claimed from the forest. I know, intellectually, just how much work goes into keeping each compound lush and beautiful. I've seen the hours put in, and bills for a full-time gardener on staff. But leave the compound and walk along the street, and you should watch where you step, because on the ground is a carpet of blue-purple flowers, thick and soft, freshly fallen that morning from the blossoming trees. I will try to take a picture of the road near my house in the enxt few days, before the trees finish losing their blossoms. Even then, the green is not yet done. The rains are coming, and with them, the most beautiful time of year. Every tree and shrub bursts into bloom, and the fern underfoot - kept neatly trimmed in a thicker lawn than mere grass could provide - make a bid for freedom. The green explodes into life.
The animals and birds respond. My colleague has been bemoaning the birds outside her window: charming in daylight hours, but infuriating at 5am. I don't have sognbirds keeping me awake, but there is a persistent rooster that wakes up at about 4am and makes his presence known. My grandparents had roosters on their farm, and when I was little I'd be woken by the crowing. Last night, I curled up on my bed - on my own sheets, with my own pillow case, in my own bedclothes and with my books and water bottle and phone beside me - and fell asleep after a struggle. Too much coffee, you see. I slept oddly, trying to wake at the usual 6.45am but unable to do so, staggering upright finally at 10am. I dreamed I was at home. I woke, and stretched, and here's the thing: I was. Suddenly, everything was familiar.
I stretched and staggered into the bathroom to brush my teeth, my hands automatically reaching for the bottled water to wet my toothbrush rather than turning on the tap. I pulled on my gym kit while half-asleep, forced down a banana, and worked my way through Davina's aerobics and legs workout. I was half-way through a follow-up pilates session by the time I was fully awake. I filtered some water, filled the kettle, and got into the shower for a luxurious eucalyptus-scented wake-up call. Wandering out refreshed, I had a pot of rooibos tea and scrambled eggs while reading The Observer that had helpfully downloaded onto my Kindle while showering. I did a load of laundry. I read a chapter of Antonia Fraser's Mary, Queen of Scots. I did my washing up. I listened to the worshippers singing as they returned home from church. I made another pot of tea, opened all the windows and sat down with melba toast and home-made jam and my laptop to check my email.
Outside, it started to rain.
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