End of Days

Day ends and everything speaks to me in Eliot. "His soul stretched out across the skies that fade behind a city block" "the burnt-out ends of smoky days" "I have lingered in the chambers of the sea". Even when the words don't tally exactly, they fall with a slow cadence, a rhythm and a texture that settles easily on this hour.

It's going to be seven soon. The work day is done and I have left the office. I've slung my rucksack over my shoulder. I'm wearing rubber-soled shoes. I'm going to walk about 200 meters to the stage where my taxis wait.

I left my car at home because I didn't think I would need it today. Her brakes are bad and I'd rather not risk taking her out unless I really have to, but I'm beginning to think that maybe I left her at home because you can't do this with a car.

You can't plug yourself into a Lupe Fiasco mixtape and sigh at a pale moon rising over steeples of Nakawa and just roll down this hill. Lupe turning words into trapeze artists. The man is amazing. The whoosh of traffic—Kampala rushing out of itself. Everything hot and frantic and cramped and crowded and furious about the day is coming to an end. Night is falling. Sigh again. Exhale. Do you feel that?

Seven p.m.