homecoming

I ate myself sick on Liberian food, mixing greens and rice together with a spoon while an elderly white woman nearby said, too loudly, "This is so hot. I like spicy food, but I can't even eat this." Colors swirled around me, women in sparkling headties and men in embroidered shirts. I sat out the Grand March, but joined the dance floor under the ceiling fans when the unstructured dancing started, to West African music. After a while, I requisitioned a baby, and bounced him gently to the beat of the music. I leaned down and smelled his silky black curls, and ate yet another bit of toasted coconut ball. The woman sitting next to me told me about her daughter, running around with a thousand little braids, and how the girl's father is Liberian, how she's glad that she can know this part of her but she wouldn't let her visit, not until she's grown. I drank three glasses of water in a row, and finally surrendered the baby to walk home in the cooling air, wishing to go back two years in time, or forward, and be back in Liberia.