Remember Dennis? That morning in Nairobi when I needed to talk to you? I came to you while you were breakfasting in your hotel's dining room. You were having your soft-boiled egg with buttered toast, papaya and coffee. Wearing a white button-down, jeans, your mustache trimmed, those blue eyes—you are always dapper, casually elegant, so very handsome. I was coming off a kind of high—that elation you feel when your world is rocked and you desperately need to share it with the one who'll get it because they get you. You get me Dennis you always have. You even visited me in my dreams last night just when I needed you today, now, again. There you are.
While you ate I told you my very good story about my long blurry night at the Iqbal—how a baby was born blue in the Rastas’ hotel room next to mine under the full moon. About how I went to get hot water, sheets and towels just like they do in the movies when Sexy Mama the midwife/sex worker wearing glitter nail polish sent me on the errand, passing the cloud of men gathered in the hallway smoking ganja waiting. And how after birthing the mother gathered her legs off the bed to sit up. Newborn swaddled on her chest—blue fading to pink to beautiful rose. Ravenous she bit into a mango after bringing a child into this world. Juice dripped down her chin, on her arms, onto her bare feet onto the floor. Baby sheltered under mother’s khanga. My flight to Mogadishu was booked that afternoon. Dennis, should I go? Why are you asking me that? Of course you should—what's your big deal? Go put on your best dress and get to the airport. A baby was born. Coffee? you said pouring me a cup.
Oh my this is beautiful. (thank you for the trip back in time to those days of mangos and khagas and flights to Mogadishu)