Don't Dream It's Over

At first I counted the days. I had sentenced myself to sixty days of penance in an African reformatory; I intended to do the time, rehabilitate, and move on with life. Three long days passed. That was 5%. After twelve tedious days 20% was in the books; that felt like a milestone.

New friends arrived. Real friends. Suddenly I didn’t feel incarcerated anymore, but I was still rehabilitating. Every day was exactly the same, but every week was a little better than the one before.

My friends left. I felt alone again.

I learned the names of all the kids at school. Recess became tolerable, then it became the most rewarding two hours of the day, then I started grabbing onto kids at the edge of the rye. I made too many friends, habesha and firenje, to hang out with. I never get enough sleep, but I always wake up before my alarm goes off. Life hasn’t normalized, it’s just gotten dreamier. I used to be enthralled riding the buses. That got boring. Now for amusement I walk back roads and alleys five miles home from school without a map. The sun is my compass. I deliberately lost myself in a labyrinth of cobblestone alleyways in a nearby village at night a couple weeks ago. I had nothing to fear from the shadowy figures rambling the alleys, but I forgot about the feral dogs. I made it home without incident.

I extended my stay in Addis, and then I extended it again. I am having a hard time leaving this enchanting shithole. There is a 1% chance I never will. I scoffed at the concept of reverse culture shock when I got here; now I am terrified of it. I went to a firenje party the other night. A house full of white people drinking and talking. Its normalcy made it weird. I don’t want to go to firenje parties. I want to be the firenje. I dread the people at home who will ask me “How was Africa?” There will be no way to explain this illogical rapture to those who haven't been wrapped in it themselves.