I wake up this morning to the sound of school children and the milk vendors on donkeys and sunshine peaking through the window. I have been in Sudan for five days. It is all weddings and photographs and laughter and last minute shopping and cooking up a storm in the kitchen. Wanting to get away from the chaos, I silently grab my camera and leave through the backdoor. I go for a walk with no purpose. No destination. No place to be.
I walk through the neighborhood I grew up in. Senses unfold with familiar. Overwhelmed with nostalgic memories and shock. I sit under a tree witnessing neighborhood kids play at a distance. They run up to me with curiosity and smiles. And over hopscotch and mango juice I tell them stories about my childhood. How I used to walk through the same streets, back allies and see the same decorative doors. How I used to visit the small brick house after school and play pretend with the neighborhood kids until sunset. How this will always be home.
