A Rooming House, Dar es

Salaam

Viscid, still, oppressive heat hung in the darkness. Ignored by ceiling fan the air sat moist and close against our enervated limbs. Beneath the single sheet I rolled onto my back and instantly was bathed in sweat. The air had cooled and morning brought such fresh relief. I woke, encrusted with the salt of my night sweat and sought a place to wash myself. Barefoot, I padded down dark halls— cool air against my face, and stepped into a room. I stood transfixed. Its mirrored walls reflected women, tall, dark and lithe, their rich dark skin accented by white briefs and bras. Unselfconsciously, they dressed, then primped and combed, unconcerned with my embarrassment. It’s not as though I had not seen, girls in prime of youth and innocent of guilt, young women breasts bared at rivers edge or muddy tap to bathe, or walking gracefully, burdens borne on heads, a poetry of motion. But these young office workers, dressing for the day in western clothes did not look innocent to me. Magnificent—erotic—yes. I fear the lack of innocence was mine and left, discomfited, to find a safer bath.