This week, I acquired a papaya the size of my thigh.
The market-woman was cradling it like a baby.
I don't know how effective this was but you never know: strange things happen during development in Liberia.
I think it's the heat.
According to Liberian legend, a woman noticed her housekeeper striding into puberty and promptly beat the girl's chest with a wooden spoon, hoping to stall nature (and her husband's advances).
The market-woman was cradling it like a baby.
I don't know how effective this was but you never know: strange things happen during development in Liberia.
I think it's the heat.
According to Liberian legend, a woman noticed her housekeeper striding into puberty and promptly beat the girl's chest with a wooden spoon, hoping to stall nature (and her husband's advances).
The motorbike drivers, the wheelbarrow pushers, the roving ex-combatants -- tough-as-nails young men -- almost always look trapped in perma-youth like dolls or preserves.
And small children gyrate wildly to songs whose lyrics make me blush (or, you know, my version thereof). It's as though they were born with grown-up swagger (or, at the very least, moves like Jagger).
I wonder if, at any point, the housekeepers and tough guys and gyrating children got cradled as sweetly as that papaya (which, for the record, was amazing. I think it was the heat).
And small children gyrate wildly to songs whose lyrics make me blush (or, you know, my version thereof). It's as though they were born with grown-up swagger (or, at the very least, moves like Jagger).
I wonder if, at any point, the housekeepers and tough guys and gyrating children got cradled as sweetly as that papaya (which, for the record, was amazing. I think it was the heat).
2 comments:
This has to be a book someday, just saying.
Jeremy, you're lovely (and way, way cooler than Aaron.)
Post a Comment