On Sunday, I sat
in the bathtub and gave a wail of grief loud enough to wake the
undead. Moments of grief, of remembering lost love and the helplessness I feel
at the waste of what should've been.
Longing to see my family and knowing that
this is highly improbable. Fully aware of the choice I have to make. If I
leave, it is unlikely that I would be able to return. The climate in America
makes it even harder for a now poor-white starving immigrant from the middle
of darkest Africa to hop to and fro across the borders. If I stay, I face
lonely uncertainty, but the faint hope for a better life. If I go to Africa,
I face the ever-crumbling facade of first world eroding as my own body
erodes with time.
Besides, I don't particularly want to fly.
My Mad-Muslim Tackling Skills are at an all time low right now. I'm not
exactly wild about flying, anyway. Past experiences as a dependent passenger
have put paid to that sense of immortality which is the trademark of youth.