June 13, 2026
A few nights ago, after a morning rain had washed the dust from the compound and left the earth dark and fragrant, I found myself standing alone beneath a light bulb gathering termites.
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At first, it felt like nothing more than coincidence, the kind of ordinary evening that does not announce its significance. But the longer I stood there, bowl in hand, watching the insects circle the light in restless clouds, the more it became clear that what I was doing was not really about termites at all. It was about something that had quietly slipped out of reach.
When I was growing up, a morning rain carried a meaning everyone understood without needing to be told. By evening, the winged termites would arrive in dense swarms around every bulb in the compound, and the entire place would change character. Children would drift out instinctively, carrying rusted tins, plastic bowls, basins and anything that could hold water and movement. Nobody coordinated it. Nobody explained it. It simply happened because that was how evenings like that were lived.
