In villages like mine,dust never settles. When it does then it must be muddy or a dark rainy night. It is for this reason that I choose not to go out as often. A guy once asked if I was brooding eggs,.why so rare?
Mornings start with roosters crowing,so random are the interval that you can barely tell which one is the early bird worth obeying. Birds chirping,goats bleating the doors and gates begin to bang. Footsteps approaching and disappearing quick. Dew on grass,leaves and surfaces begins to dry off. Mothers calling out names of their kids,utensils clattering,children laughter and wails take up the first half of the day. Then it gets peaceful,almost silent. Now this is when the voices are loudest.,her mother complains about her,she’s bad company to your daughter,her brother is a thug on the loose,if they don’t watch him he’ll soon be like his uncle,the sisters look very much alike but I heard that lady isn’t their real mother. This voices rise as soon as someone passes. So much said about one person in such a little while that you wonder what more would they say if the person stopped to allow the onlookers a moment to study his mode of dressing,her voice,his standing posture or her hair do. There’s always enough and over to be said about one person. The night is never quiet here. Crickets and frogs take on the talk like they’re on a payroll. They say when the night’s dark,nobody sees law. How right,but perhaps my village was excluded in this study. Night’s as alive as day. The few who don’t see the law are seen. This village that I call home talks.