Nairobi nights

smell of dust, of heat, of waiting for the rain.

In this season of dryness and burning, my favourite hours are the ones between sunset and midnight. That's when the hot gusty winds become playful, caressing. That's when we open, carefully, as the stars emerge, the feelings we carry through the day, like lockets around our necks, and show them to each other.

How is the land?

The land is troubled. We are in drought.

I feel so bad for my students. Imagine being an 18-year old at Kenyatta University right now. Knowing there are no jobs, no opportunities.

How do they do it? The ruling class, the politicians? How do they live in oblivion of the rage on the streets?

The way the Israelis do it. The way the AIG bankers do it. Only their own lives are real to them. The rest of us are ants.

It's beyond logic now. The greed is infantile. We're governed by angry, terrified toddlers, trapped in the bodies of seventy-year-old men.

How are things at the hospital? At the paper? At the university?

How is your heart doing?

We talk literature, politics, art. History, mythology, movements, paradox. I tell my friends they all need to feed on BaCoN - biodiversity, cosmology, neuroplasticity - my recipe for hope and delight in these days.

Biodiversity - the extraordinary capacity of nature to adapt and reinvent. All we have to do is get out of the way.

Cosmology - the hugeness of the universe. Hundreds of other planets out there, capable of supporting life. Hundreds of other worlds where they could get it right.

Neuroplasticity - the wonder of the human brain. Each thought is a chance to lay down a fresh neural pathway. To weaken an old one which no longer serves. In every moment, despite everything, we can choose joy.

Last night, we talked until the restaurant closed. Then continued in the carpark, against the backdrop of bougainvillea. Unable to stop, unwilling to part. As if with rivers of talk, we could infuse ourselves into each other, to keep and carry away. We said:

God, we need another six hours. A full day. A week-long retreat just to share ideas.

We told each other:

You have to write about this. Do a piece on it. We have to collaborate on this. We have to document it, capture it, make work about it.

We kept saying:

I'm so glad you're home. Even briefly.

I'm so glad to be home. However short the time is.

I'm so glad, so glad, we carved out this evening.

I'm so grateful for you. Beyond words.