The lull before the thunderstorm.
I feel an ache in the pit of my stomach. Can you really call this homesickness? Or is it just an overactive imagination?
I want that flat overlooking Christmas Pass. I want to watch Samongo monkeys stealing fruit from the trees. I want to breathe the nectar of African air, sweat and dust and smoke mingling.
I will have a little Datsund with a manual drive that sometimes stubbornly refuses to start. I have to park it facing downhill to jumpstart it.
I'll have a cat that lurks on my verandah for scraps and will come cuddle on cold nights - but will disappear for days during summer, proudly presenting me with his catch - a mutape, perhaps.
I will have a gas stove because sometimes the electricity will go out - although not as much as it used to. Things are improving. Mugabe is dead.
I will teach at the primary school in Mutare. My students are black and Indian, colored and Chinese, white and Portuguese. They look at me with wide eyes.
Who expects a slender redhead in the middle of Africa?
And I will go to ladies' class every Thursday afternoon. I will teach Sunday morning Bible class. I will have colored construction paper from America. The children will marvel but will also remember my stories.
I will have learned Shona by that time and be able to converse easily and teach in it as well.
