My favorite week in Kenya was a journey through its hills and valleys, a week where I had four distinct places to lay down my head.
First was under the outstretched arms of an African shade tree as firelight twisted in shadows on my tented walls and the lingering memory of tribal songs echoed in my head.
Second was in the bush where the sun sank low in an atmosphere of hesitation so as to grace the sparse viewers with a worthy backdrop for the giraffes and zebras and wildebeests and gazelles that strode through the tall grasses in the backyard.
Third was on a floor in a chapel on prison grounds on a mountain shaped like an elephant while the moon provided a hint of shine through the not-quite-stained-glass-yet-still-something-special windows as air mattresses rustled and my thoughts slipped to the eyes and the hands and the hearts of the men in pin-striped uniforms nearby, mosquitoes humming bittersweet melodies in my ears.
Fourth was in a house I have come to call home with a people I have come to call family as palm tree giants stood guard outside and dead stars masqueraded as life in the open space beyond and eyes were shut with the peace of a sigh contented in staying in place.
