I have loved Bangladesh, bright, brilliant, filthy, but I am almost out of time here.
So here I am, groping for answers as to what and where should come next, swinging madly from one choice to another on an almost daily basis.
My lifestyle is demanding but also more than a little addictive. It’s a drug that’s hard to kick and I’m not always sure I want to get clean.
And yet, I think I would like life lived a little less in transit, a smile I could wake up to, maybe even a wall to hang some of these photos on. But perhaps these are just pipe dreams to pad out my bags….
I am trying to take away the tags, the weight, the worry and ask instead what would I like life to look like, what should be in the tin. It ‘s hard to know, hard to be sure.
I could do with a fortuitously placed fortune cookie, a savy seer, a smoke signal…
It is probably at least a clear sign that I should move on to somewhere with a little more va va voom, that I’m suddenly all nostalgic for the dead, dusty north of Nigeria – just because it was a place where I could dance, move, touch.
There staff meetings turned into dance parties with the help of nothing stronger than dry cookies and sickly soda. Being locked indoors with a 8pm curfew just seemed like a good excuse to turn the music on and the lights down low.
Back then I railed against my daily half bucket of water, occasional electricity, periodic shocks, constant stress, regular sickness and the seemingly ceaseless diet of goat on goat, and rice on rice.
I honestly never thought a year later I would be bed-dancing to Naija music in a mosquito net a couple of continents away….
Want to join in the jiggle with me?
Wherever I go, whatever I do, remind me to go out dancing…