You have to kill that

Your time in Bissock and Ebolowa is drawing to a close. You are happy to be done with training, which besides model school has felt completely pointless, but you are sad to say good bye to most of your stage (training) mates. You barely think about what life will be like once you are at your future home because it is as difficult to think about as the idea of Cameroon was before you left. Instead you try to take a second look around you.
Cameroon, when looked at the right way, feels like a cartoon. The motos honk is outlandish fashions as they whistle by with obtuse cargo, like Tom running with a piano to smack Jerry. The dust from the moto needs an onomatopoeia buzzing in the air as you imagine the cliff the dwindling dust is sure to reveal. Gestures are outlandish in the face of utter calm. Chickens seam to look up in fear when you talk about them, as if they know their fate. Women wear dresses you don’t see how they move in. Children run with their arms in the air like wings. The same child carries water you’d find heavy up the same small cliff you struggle over at the spring. The children at school sit still and stare silently till you leave the room at which point they burst into glee as if you were the teacher from The Peanuts. People somehow pass the whole day without getting their shoes dirty when the roads are dirt. Men stand in front of grills all day without feinting, cutting meat and waiting in the heat for customers. NGO white toyatas feel like photos in a cartoon setting as they go by. Beers are always twice the size as in the States, making hands look smaller. Every taxi or van looks like a clown car. There is an insect that as far as you know is called you have to kill that.
Remembering in this way is not meant to separate it from your reality but merge it with your past memories across the world and those Saturday mornings eating cereal while watching Looney Tunes.

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