A Reply Sent From The Southwest Expedition
(or How Did Time Begin, And Why Does It End  When One Dreams?)  

When I was a child time vanished, or perhaps nothing ever changed. When I made my first deep breath, the baobabs and acacia trees of the savannah and the tea and coffee bushes of the Ngong hills stood as sentinels under a pounding rain. Each year after that, they would come back to force the red soil into muddy ditches. Inevitably, dry skies would return. The wild tomatoes I chewed and a steady diet of nyoyo and ugali formed predictable interludes before the next rains. My dreams sped past, always beyond my grasp, as if on a tangent to the circular reality of my life.

百里阴云覆雪泥，  bǎi lǐ  yīn yún fù xuě ní，

行人只在雪云西。  xíng rén zhī;zhǐ zài xuě yún xī。

明朝惊破还乡梦，  míng zhāo jīng pò  huán xiāng mèng，

定是陈仓碧野鸡。  dìng shì chén cāng bì  yě jī

For hundreds of miles, darkening clouds cover the snow and mud

Here is just a line of men marching westward

Bright morning forces me awake, but I still dream of home

Indeed, of the wild green rooster of Chen Cang!

Musical Interlude: Gigue from the Partita No.1 in B Flat by J.S. Bach (Pianist: Mark Obama Ndesandjo)

 

This gigue is the lively, happy, and final movement of the seven movement Partita. I view this work not so much as a dance as a flight of fancy, or an ethereal, pursuit among the rainbows .