Kwaheri Kilimanjaro

I sit in the Kilimanjaro airport, slow sipping an ice-cold Tusker beer and watching my last African sunset. The bright salmons and deep purple reds intensifying as the encroaching African darkness creeps across the sky. The first few stars appear, twinkling over Kilimanjaro. She has peeked out from behind the clouds to make one final appearance for me, her lightly snow capped peak just glancing out from behind the clouds.

After 7 months, I am leaving Africa. This time, not knowing if and when I will return. This continent, this place, these people have touched my soul. As I write this, the uncertainty of my return is sinking in… my throat is tightening and my grief works down to my stomach.

I hate leaving; I hate saying goodbye. It takes so little to do so much, and I’m only just getting started. I don’t know the answers, I don’t have a plan, but I do know that being home is not necessarily part of the solution. I need to be here, to feel like a part of this place, so that I can measure my effect, actually see the results of the work I am doing. New York is hard; I feel like giving up on trying to explain this place to people who have never been and will never come.

Africa sticks to your skin, gets into your blood, circulates and settles into the deep parts of your brain and soul. Like an infection, a first love, these feelings will not simply dissipate, nor do I want them to. Any grief, the pain I will experience in my life will always been relative to the pain and grief I have witnessed here. The shock of a drought year, the decades of war, the loss of a child… My pain is nothing next to the thousand natural shocks that African flesh is heir to.

I came with the right attitude. Open eyes, open ears, open mind, open heart. I came here wanting to see and learn, not impose and change. And what, if anything, have I learned? Impossible to synthesize, probably more about myself than about any of the places I’ve been. I carry with the smiles of the Ugandan children, playing barefooted soccer in the dirt, the lingering laugh of Rwandan children, screaming upon our arrival, the singing and clapping of Congolese women, the catcalls of Zanzibari vendors on the beach… And breathtaking Kilimanjaro. Whenever this gracious old lady decides to make an appearance from behind her cloudy veil, to peek out immodestly from behind the clouds, to flaunt her curves and barely snow-capped peak, I stop. You can’t take your eyes off her. As I watch this sunset and slowly sip this beer, one thing is certain: it’s not over Africa. I’ll be back.