The tape, as I unstick it from its place, rips off plates of paint from our crummy, moldy walls.
My heart wrinkles a little.
I fold the tape over the corners of my collage. Lay it down over my everest-sized pile of clothes-to-trade-for-souvenirs.
I sigh.
It is quiet.
A cockroach scurries out of a shirt sleeve. I flick him lovingly off the bed. The only one to keep my house company these days.
I start pulling out notebooks, so much. So many. Too many things I collect and funnel value into.
I must decide which to take and what to leave behind in the rubbish bin.
Back at school, I chuck half the pile, almost violently, into the trash and stride away. Stay there then. Have it your way.
Only a few minutes before all of this, I bragged about being ready to go home, washing my hands of this ridiculous place.
But it only just occurred to me then that by leaving Africa, I will be facing a whole new life. Like a neo-Alice, falling further down the rabbit hole. I am being sieved, strained, pressed until the juices of energetic volunteerism is squeezed dry.
I have only heard rumors, of course, but I believe that what I will be facing will be maybe even more terrifying than it is here.
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