When a wind delivered the first smell of rain to me about which I wrote in my post, The Throbbing Earth, it also brought to me a voice.
Because of a crushing farming schedule, our friend Bruce was unable to attend my recent 50th birthday party.
Bush table decor at my 50th birthday bash. Photograph by Cynthia Morris.
An Irish philosopher poet accompanied me to Livingstone. When I left America I packed him away in my heart and in my mind.
I was chatting to a friend in America a while ago, telling her about my average day on the farm here in Livingstone, when she suddenly piped up: “Annabel, you sound just like a Bush Martha!”
I was sitting at my desk in our tin box, corrugated walls all wide open in a futile stab at tempering the 43-degree afternoon heat, when a gust of wind whipped through. I heard it before I felt it.
Live entertainment of any kind is a luxury here in the upper Zambezi Valley.