When I step out of the house without a light, night wraps his arm around me and draws me into his pitch black belly.
At full moon the village is illuminated by her rays, the stars dotted across the sky mirror the majesty of an awesome God.
The magical glow worms darting, on the grass, in the air, on my shoulder – now I see them, now I don’t. Just when I think I have figured out their path they disappear, it's fascinating.
I hear animals conversing in the dark, the owl hooting in the distance, birds tweeting goodnight. Sounds of the chicken, roosters, turkeys and ducks fluffing their feathers as they each look for a cozy nook in the tree.
The drunken man's gibberish soliloquy as he stumbles home after an evening of ajon drinking with friends.
Ah! The sounds of the night.
I drift off to sleep in a world where silence takes centre stage.
5 o’clock in the morning, the roosters across the village dutifully crow – “coco-lio-kokooooo arise and shine, a new day is upon us” and the turkeys clucks “kulukulukulu, true true true, it’s getting bright indeed”The sheep and goats bleat as the care taker tugs them along to be tethered in the bushes.
The cows raise their voices to say “good mooooorning”.
Ochan makes a clicking sounds with his tongue as he lures the cow to the milking shed. He pats her back to calm her down then he ever so gently but firmly draws milk from her udder into his bucket. Her tail hits his face from time to time as she swipes insects off her back. She enjoys the stroke of his fingers, it soothes her once aching udders.
I tried to milk a cow once but never got more than a few drops into the bucket.
The smell of fresh cow dung whiffs up into the air, as if to remind me that I am in the country.
The villagers get up at the crack of dawn and head straight to their gardens, weeding, digging, planting or harvesting, depending on the time of the year.
Grandma says 6 o’clock is the best time to plough the land, it’s the coolest time of day and the fresh morning dew softens the soil.
8 o’clock grandma is sitting at the entrance of her hut churning milk in her favorite gourd.
I relish the sound that it makes as she shakes it to a rhythm – chachung, chachung, chachung.
Later she emerges from her hut with eritey, a local tray.
She strides through the kraal and the neighborhood looking for fresh dang. When asked to help, Simon and I giggle and scamper away.
See, dang is the glue that holds her tray together, it seals all the holes so her millet grains don't filter through gaping holes.
10 o'clock the villagers and farmers, return carrying their hoes, sticks, sickles and pangas each one peeling away from the crowd as they reach their respective huts, they wave to the rest who have a longer distance to cover.
Time for breakfast, a few leftovers from last nights supper, roasted or boiled cassava, g nuts, sweet potatoes and a cup of milk, black tea, porridge, water, oranges, mangoes.
