I took that same truth to the situation of the gunshots that one night. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest easy and be restored in that house if I stayed there. And I needed to be my best self if I wanted the best for the ladies.

I hear them coming closer on the other side of the concrete wall that’s about eight feet high. My bedroom window is only two feet from the wall. I lay perfectly still, as if that’ll keep them away. Heart pounding, sweating, tears falling out of my eyes without my awareness of them.

We learned that we could eat dinner for less than $1 if we bought day-old scones at the grocery store and dipped them in our jar of peanut butter. We learned that Coca-Cola is cheaper than water, but probably won’t make you feel good if it’s all you drink. We learned how to say hello, how are you, and see you tomorrow in Nyanja. And we also learned that we could really get on each other’s nerves. 

Mark and I just look at each other and utilize our nonverbal sibling communication skills. He’s squirming, I’m squirming. Please just let us type this five-page document to get us out of here sometime today. But we trust, we let him do his thing, and meanwhile I’m going weak in the knees as the day heats up and the cow tongue smell becomes especially pungent in this dark, cramped, busy market stall. 

Mark and I say few words to each other. We’re just soaking it up. It’s not my first time here, but it’s still a lot to take in. And yet somewhere in the midst of all the hustle and bustle and new sights, it has this strange feeling of home.