The Art of Saying Goodbye

Nin i xa lungtango fonda jee

Isa tonda nganya jee

If you see a foreigner's forehead

You will soon be seeing the back of his head, too

You will spend two years in your village, making friends - as well as jokes - that you otherwise never would. You will spend endless moments memorizing names and faces and dependents. Then one day you will tell them it's time for you to go, and they will come with their drums and their voices and their blessings and you will dance and you will spin until all of their faces become a blur that you hope is not permanent. They will come in the night with more blessings and gifts of cloth and before long you will fall asleep under the stars with the taste of sugary tea and salty tears on your tongue.

In the morning, they will tell you not to cry while they try to keep their cheeks dry. The very, very old and the very, very young may never remember you. But all together - the young and the old and those inbetween - make a complete family that over the last few years has loved you and fed you and tried, against all odds, to understand you. 

Finally, you will ride away and they will no longer see your forehead, but the back of your head as you vanish slowly down the path.