I lived in Africa, some time ago. The forgotten continent. I used to dream about Africa, afterwards. For years. Now it's long gone, I seem to have lost the african spirit somewhere in this all-busy western life.
It was quiet, cruel sometimes, and full of beauty and death. Cars could crash full of passengers, and in a decor of beautiful sunset it would take hours for rescue, people bleeding and dying in the fabulous nature.
A troop of babboons would sit and shit on a nice Mercedes, all nice and natural.
I have no idea how it is over there now, but I sometimes wake up in the morning, wondering, no, grieving about this lost dream. It was so much worth it.
Why didn't we stay?
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