The last 200m before my house are an inferno. Leaving the cafes on the mainstreet, or the Singapore grocery, I can find shade, under the veranda of the various stores or coconut palms. But after I round the corner, past the tire shop, then the Evangelical Church, and then the Coffee Warehouse there is no shade. Not a bamboo shoot wide break from the tropical, overhead blistering sun. In general, my body after four months sweats slightly less than it did at the beginning, but it begins sweating vigorously at the beginning of this stretch in mere anticipation of the sun. My neighbors sit in the shade of their ministores, mango-trees, burned out cars, watch me slide by, no doubt noticing the gleaming layer forming on my skin.

By the time I extract the key fob from my burning black bag, and open the door, I begin stripping. Turn the radio on and just disrobe in front of the fans. Sometimes the nakedness, mixed with power pop, or Angolan music leads to dancing on the white tiles. If only the prudish family outside knew. Today I emerged with a towel going into the shower, and my landlady asked, ‘have you left today, or are you just waking up?’ I appreciated her naïve noisyness, and chuckled, no I just got back from the office (and I’m dripping with sweat goddamit let me into the shower).


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