I once travelled to a far away land to live in a small earthen hut on the top of a hill, surrounded by banana trees and the raw sweetness of dense tropical trees and neighbors whose names I knew. A place where the rain falls heavily and gently, filling barrels from zinc roofs. Where cotton trees grow tall and wide, and reach the sky—all powerful, their force beckons whole villages to gather and nestle under their reach. Filled with endless calm, it bustles with the business of ordinary days—with water to fetch, rice to plant, palm oil to make and cassava leaf that awaits. And the beat of a drum, and dancing feet. And peanuts ground, kola nuts and red hot pepper that flies off the plate. A place where mansions are built out of earth, and a singing language dissolves the distance of far away calls. Where limes fall from trees and refresh souls—far, far away from ice and cold. A place that pulls one's heart to yearn deeply for right where you are, as you look to the same stars that others do—far, far from this paradise.
- Lorraine Johnson