Place is the woven mat pressed into our skin

and its on a journey of its own.

I remember Arua as dry and flat as the small garden outside our gate where we grew g-nuts. But I return and find that it is green, so green, and there is rain coming and the sunlight swims around me and sits heavy on the lid of my memories. I am lost in Anyafio.

A girl laughs so loudly it bounces off the cement walls across the street. In the echo I mome…