I was his interpreter.

A lyric essay from the Congo Basin + more exciting news!

Once, in a cathedral built of trees and tin, I watched my uncle walk in the door, one hundred metres of words wound around his index finger. The words smelled like fabric softener and car fluids and airplane tickets. I was his interpreter. In the morning, a cup of water outside to wash his face and brush his teeth, a crowd of children watching and waiti…