Amadou and ants

The BBC spits out endless news of violence and death and oh my god terrible things that instead of talking about I will listen to grimly as I sweep my floor and then flick it off when my heart is tired of caring. Ants trail into my room, sending secret messages about something that holds their interest. Can’t imagine what it could be- my Metamucil, vinegar, dried okra? Miserable food collection attracting hordes of tiny pests that I do my best to exterminate one by one as they scurry in panic mode. I once had a one-man club dedicated to saving ants. I would swoop in between my mother and her victim, carefully placing it on the front crumbling sidewalk. Pleased as the ant strutted off, saved from a possible squashing.

I wanted to cry when Amadou, the man who made the latrine doors, asked for more money. He welded the beautiful metal doors basically for free and I didn’t have enough money to increase his payment. I explained this to him, and choked over the words, Thank You. Those words are too small.