It hits you, every time. That gentle
thud of heavy, sluggish, pulsing heat. The kind of heat that carries the sweat of hawkers, up since the crack of dawn. The kind of heat that wraps itself around the buildings perilously stacked against one another. The kind of heat, that clings on to the braids of women navigating the undulating streets.
The burst of colour overwhelms you. The clashing prints, tailored by local couturiers adorn their wearers, unwitting peacocks in a visual parade. Murals displaying adulations to the Most High, decorate the vehicles that dart through the city. The orange-red earth sticks veils everything in an even, light dusting.
It's the noise that gets you. The indelible horn of what seems to be a permanent traffic jam. Snatches of a conversation in the patois of a city in the tropics. East meets West in dialogues between vendors and buyers.You hear the distant sound of the Atlantic boring rivulets into the coastline where the Earth drifts away.
It's familiar, yet foreign. That heaving, pulsating, trembling heart continuing on, regardless.
