Matema Beach.

My eyes open and I peer at the others through the mosquito nets.

They are still sleeping. 

'Oh, to be still asleep', I think to myself. 

And then I look up.

 Through the windows orange rays shine. 

The thin net slips back into place as I stand. 

The door squeaks as I pull it closed behind me. 

The sand is cool underneath my feet as I walk towards the smooth water. 

The mountains blend from dark green to black and eventually to hazy blue in the distance. 

The glow of the sun can be seen over the most dramatic peaks. 

It casts its orange reflection on the water.

Three birds swoosh over the glass surface.

Others sing from their perches in the trees around me.

Voices of the fishermen can be heard as they return to shore from a night of fishing. 

Canoes dot the beach. 

The palm leaves rustle in the gentle wind and create a comforting sound. 

The sun's glow reflects on the windows of the red-roofed buildings that stand in a row. 

And the waves gently form and lap the sandy shore.

Two canoes slowly float by.

The clunk of the paddle against the side keeps time with the fishermen's singing. 

Their volume changes as they lean forward to drag the paddle back through the dark water. 

The sun continues to rise, creating a purple haze on the horizon. 

The sand is dotted with the footprints of many.
This is peace itself.

People begin to wake.
And the day begins. 

The First Rain of the Dry Season.

New rain. 

Fresh rain. 

The thunder has been rumbling for days now. 

The skies dark with heavy clouds. 

Today it came. 

A month early. 

It started with the smell of stirring dirt flowing through the window. 

And then the thunder cleared its throat. 

The drops started slowly falling on the tin roof. 

And became a huge downpour.

I ran out the door and into the huge drops that were falling. 

The smell of the rain colliding with the dust wafted into the air.  

I watched friends run up the hills from the their gardens, trying get out of the downpour while I just stood and enjoyed the fresh water on my skin. 

The dogs were curled up on the porch avoiding the cold as best they could. 

The wind came and the drops began to fall sideways. 

Smacking into to the side of anything in their path. 

Everything feels more alive when the rains come. 

As if the life which has been hiding beneath the dryness, comes awake with the splash of water. 

The brown grass looks deeper in color, almost red. 

And the trees are vivid.

The rain washes off every layer of dust. 

It continues to pound on the roof and the dry earth.

Awakening every root and leaf. 

The trees shift back and forth in the wind, the leaves are trembling.

One falls, it shall soon lose its green color and take up the brown color which the parched grass upon which it now lays exhibits. 

The raindrops fall rapidly from the edge of the tin roof, and never at the same time so that it looks as if they will never stop. 

In the distance the clouds are bright and pink, but directly overhead, they are depressing: dark and grey. 

A cool breeze flows onto the porch. 

And the downpour quickly lessons until it becomes just a sprinkle. 

The thunder still booms. 

A rooster crows. 

Voicing his belief that the rain is finished. 

But he is wrong. 

The rain returns and the tin roof thunders again.

The distant hills become veiled.

The strong rain blurring the vision of the distance. 

The smell of wet earth returns. 

The smell of the first rain of the dry season. 

Brookie's House.

As we walk along the path the moon shines its big, bright face on us. 

We chat and laugh as we make our way through the chilly night towards the light that shines above the door.

Someone calls from ahead to watch out for siafu. 

Knowing the painful bite of pinching ants, the rest of us following jump over the black line of insects. 

The peach tree hangs its low boughs over the small porch, and little fruits dangle.

The big wooden door creaks open and we step into the house. 

The stone fireplace dominates the right corner. 

The kitty sprawls on the chair. 

The piano is front and centre, ready for use. 

I hand out the black and blue books and remember all the times these books have been held by fellow missionaries. 

Brookie sits down and her fingers magically run across the keys. 

In the dim light my eyes wander over the pages of songs we have sung for years. 

Together, in the same dim light. 

I remember Brookie's voice since I was little. 

Always wondering how she managed to sing so well. 

I remember Field Meeting days, when we used to gather in groups of twenty. 

I remember sitting in the group of little people. 

We'd shout out our favorites before the adults even had a chance. 

And Brookie would always listen to our requests. 

And I remember learning new songs with visiting faces. 

And crazy loud worship nights. 

I remember the crackling fire on freezing nights. 

And the guitar strum. 

I remember times when many voices joined together, when there was not enough room to sit. 

I remember Brookie's chai tray and Aunt Lynn's desserts. 

I remember sermons and prayer time. 

I remember Luka's fantastic deep voice. 

Back to the present and our little group of five is bonding. 

We laugh and share stories between songs. 

Between songs of the olden days. 

As we step out of Brookie's house into the darkness, our hearts are full. 

Hurry up and come home Brookie! :) 

Dar es Salaam.

We fly over islands and the coast of the mainland comes into view. 

I can't help but think the capital of my country looks dirty. 

Oh, well.

The billowy clouds begin to rush past and as the wheels touch down, 

the only thought in my head is, "I'm home". 

The blue sign of Julius Nyerere International Airport welcomes us back. 

As we shuffle off our Qatar Airways plane, my excitement grows. 

Stepping into the jetway, the warmth of the outside air envelopes us. 

I breathe in deeply and Africa fills my senses. 

A wide smile stretches across my face. 

The giraffes on the Vodacom posters greet us on our way to immigration. 

~

As I step out of the air conditioned arctic accommodation which is our room, 

I am met with a blast of humidity. 

I hear the sweeping of a grass broom on the hardened earth. 

The birds singing and the cawing of the angry crow. 

I pour myself a cup of tea, the best tea: Chai Bora; 

Stir in some powdered milk and brown sugar and sip the sweetness that is the taste of home.

The birds are still singing as I sit at one of the short tables and 

take a deep whiff of the strong black tea. 

The sun's rays play across the varnished table and warm my back. 

A vervet monkey moves from his perch in the trees. 

He watches me with fascination and a bobbing of the head.

Soon he loses interest and climbs higher into the leafed branches.

The sound of chickens crowing and people conversing carries over into my little corner of quiet. 

The annoying bite of the mosquitoes keeps me slapping my legs. 

The cook strolls by waiting for her lodgers to partake of the morning meal. 

We smile and she leaves. 

I take another sip of my tea and revel in the African taste. 

Mtetezi.

The body of a lifeless man is placed in the coffin that my father built this morning.

It is carried and placed in the back of the truck.

Sitting next to me is the new widow.

A tiny little woman who has seen much.

She rides stoically, gripping the seat in front of her with her wrinkled

 hands, hands which have held countless children and grandchildren.

She smells of the smoke of indoor fires.

The granddaughter atop my lap whispers excitedly about the passing countryside.

Her excitement is not stifled by the sallow faces of her family.

The mist and clouds hang low in a depressing darkness as we approach the village.

The hills and mountains are green from the rains.

The road is rough and the old widow rocks back and forth between me and her daughter-in-law.

Between the rolling hills there sits the tin roofs of the village of Mtetezi.

Corn as tall as a man rises throughout the crowded huts.

The rain holds back.

Tension fills the truck, everyone is aware of what is to come.

Weeping. Wailing.

The coffin is greeted at the door by the wailing and sobbing women.

Some fall to the ground and others grip each other in shock.

They follow the coffin into the house and the wailing continues.

The men stand outside, quiet.

The rain starts and everyone runs for cover.

Standing with the children I watch the clouds and mist roll over the hills.

We wait.

The muddy road is marked by the footprints of those coming to pay their respects.

The childrens' giggles and laughter drown out the wails coming from the house.

So surrounded by death, the children don't bat an eye at its presence.

Their clothing ripped and stained, the shoeless little urchins know no different.

With snotty noses and dirty faces they smile at me.

We stand and watch as people come and go from the house.

The rain stops.

The women begin to emerge.

The men carry the coffin out of the house.

It is placed on a table and the lid is lifted.

Daughters and sons, brothers and sisters, granddaughters and grandsons all pass by to see the face of their beloved man for the last time.

The lid is abruptly closed and the wailing resumes.

We walk in a large crowd down the road following the cross that is held in the air for all to see.

Onto a path down the side of the hill.

We walk.

The grave.

Freshly dug red dirt sits in a pile.

The people surround the coffin as it is handed down to the men standing in the hole.

I watch as the grandchildren show no sign of sorrow.

Not familiar with the old man they see no need to cry.

The pastor stands and delivers his sermon to the mellow crowd.

The choirs sing to drown out the wails of the women.

The empty thud of wet earth rings in the silence as it hits the coffin.

One after the other, grandsons, sons, brothers, all take turns shoveling the red dirt.

The women come and cover the new grave with water.

The cross is shoved into the earth.

Everyone watches in silence.

The son stands and begins reading the history of his deceased father's life.

Written on an old piece of paper is the account of the long, hard life of the man now laying under the earth.

A woman standing next to me attempts to shush her baby.

Another baby looks at me.

The mother shyly smiles.

Here there is new life.

Will this little one's life be better than that of the deceased before him?

Will he have shoes? Enough food? Warmth? Love?

We bow our heads and pray.

One last look at the grave and the family members walk numbly up the path.

Back up to the village.

Mist is forming.

Floating between the huts.

Barely able to see the rest of crowd in front of me, I watch the fog cover the hills surrounding.

All there is to see are the first huts to the left and right, nothing past that.

It looks as though it is the end of world.

White fog hiding the hills.

Everyone shivers.

We are ushered into the house.

With not enough chairs, old wrinkled men attempt to give me their seats.

I smile and hand the stools back to them.

Strangely the son is almost beaming as we say our goodbyes.

He smiles and tells us that after years and years his father finally accepted the Lord.

Happy is he who looks forward to seeing his loved ones again.

We pile back into the trucks and away we drive through the green hills.

Misty and rainy.

Cold and wet.

The granddaughter falls asleep on my lap, tired out from the long day.

Though her grandfather has been put in the ground today, she feels nothing.

Life and death.

The latter is so well known to these youngsters.

Darkness falls on us as we approach home.