The Higher You Go, The Fewer Women

She Rested Her Head Against His And Felt, For The First Time, What She Would Often Feel With Him: A Self-affection. He Made Her Like Herself. With Him, She Was At Ease; Her Skin Felt As Though It Was Her Right Size.. It Seemed So Natural, To Talk To Him About Odd Things. She Had Never Done That Before. The Trust, So Sudden And Yet So Complete, And The Intimacy, Frightened Her.. But Now She Could Think Only Of All The Things She Yet Wanted To Tell Him, Wanted To Do With Him.

My Grandfather Died In The War, My Family Went Through The War, And It Affected My Parents In Really Profound Ways. I've Always Wanted To Write About That Period - In Some Ways To Digest It For Myself, Something That Defined Me But That I Didn't Go Through.

If I Were Not African, I Wonder Whether It Would Be Clear To Me That Africa Is A Place Where The People Do Not Need Limp Gifts Of Fish But Sturdy Fishing Rods And Fair Access To The Pond. I Wonder Whether I Would Realize That While African Nations Have A Failure Of Leadership, They Also Have Dynamic People With Agency And Voices.

To Choose To Write Is To Reject Silence.

She Wanted To Ask Him Why They Were All Strangers Who Shared The Same Last Name.