East Harlem Cafe , Dinner

She had one of those window-shaking, soul-smacking power voices that could turn a flat café floor into a stage. Most of the songs were originals with only a melodic guitar and her reverberating cords. I ordered my usual turkey sandwich at the counter. “This is dedicated to all the women—no matter your size—who are beautiful”. I closed my eyes and breathed deep the mocha frappuccino iced latte earl grey tea air. It was a Spanish song about walking into the sun with a pimpled face, with hair that stands firm against the wind, with a booty that jiggles at each step, and with a smile that holds back a bitter sweet song of soul.

Liberia , Ebola Implosion 2014

Guest Vignette by Stephanie Nitschke

The new Ebola treatment center in West Point, Liberia has been attacked. My stomach drops as the faces of my youth program girls flash through my mind. Less than six months ago, I visited them in that very same slum. The community pulled apart the medical center shouting, “Ebola does not exist, you only have malaria!” Infected patients were taken out of the clinic and into the slum. On a normal day, West Point surges with tension so thick you could drop a match and the whole place would light on fire. All those people, all that energy, and ebola pent up for an indefinite period of time is asking for an implosion. 

Uganda . 2 Days after Nairobi Mall Attack

A terrorist alert spoiled my attempt at a girl’s night out. Avoid malls and public places they barked. Ugandan police—in all their 20 different uniforms—loitered importantly along every major thoroughfare. My favorite uniform is, of course, the all-white traffic cop suit with calf-high black army boots. They must rub hard to wash away the dust and red clay of the streets daily. I sidestep the barrel end of their nonchalantly holstered Cold-War era rifles and enter the supermarket. Another dinner party at home. I generally fear death by accident here more than by zealotry, but I took precaution this evening nonetheless. The next morning revealed that either peace or prudence had triumphed. We were not attacked in the night.

Murchison Falls, Uganda . January 2011

Guest Vignette by Peter Benhur Nyeko

A few miles from the mist of the roaring falls, Don Jorge the jungle giraffe and his gangly Rothchilds junta, having just stuffed themselves silly on a grazing fiesta, steal a pre-sunset savannah siesta betwixt the elephant palms. Harry the haughty hornbill and his chum Hernandez take their evening stroll past a graceful gazelle as the fading sunlight shimmers off their shiny plumage. Bambi the bushbuck toddler saunters onto the track and freezes, perplexed at the huge four legged people carrier roaring towards him. Lady Doe looks up from her grassy high tea, nods out to him and bolts for the shrubbery. Gulu, Kitgum, and Lamwo await.

My Police Encounters . Harlem Day or Night

The police directive must be for at least three cops to post up on both corners of my street at all times. There is one regular officer who is so tall he enjoys grabbing the top of the crosswalk signal to stretch his arms. Today, like most days, I find Mr. Giant Officer mid-joke with a wide, carefree smile and surprisingly high-pitch laugh. He always stops laughing abruptly just as you pass, much like a teenager playing keep-away with a private jeer. The three police block the center of the sidewalk so people sidestep them, cross the street, or move into the road to avoid them. Engrossed in my phone, I mistakenly bump Mr. Giant Officer with my large purse on his gun-side, knocking his hand from resting atop the holster. Fear grips me—I freeze. Yesterday, I saw him tapping it with his fingertips out of impatience or boredom. His hand ricochets back to his pistol instantly. The other officers whip their heads around to face me and two pedestrians slow down to stare. My threat level is being assessed. I don’t dare breathe or look up. He squares his hips to face me directly, leans down, and orders “Move along”. 

Airplane . Pre-Dawn

It feels like I exist less in both places—like I am less real compared to everyone else. I bunch little white pillows in the space between my seat and the curved, cold plane wall so I can crane my neck less watching the lapsing, dark ocean. A baby whimpers and the stranger beside me stirs for a moment. The world doesn’t seem to move on without them, despite them. Not me. I am painfully aware that the sun still rises here and the night still rages on there after I am gone, and even while I am leaving. I lean away from the sea as my breath fogs the triple-paned glass. It is humbling to visit your legacy. I am there just long enough to make a wave and gone long enough to have that wave calm into a current, and that current disappear into a ripple. Until finally there is only the water’s smooth steady glimmer reflecting a distant moon.