Swish

Once upon a time, when I first moved to Liberia, someone back home asked me how it was that I so gracefully orchestrated the ends of my flings.

"I've got a fadeaway jumpshot," I said.
"A WHAT!?"

It wasn't that the person I was speaking to didn't know what I was talking about; it was that he had no idea how I knew what I was talking about. (I cannot bring myself to watch sports, effectively making me the worst tomboy anywhere on Earth.)

My fadeaway jumpshot revealed itself again last night when I walked into a house party. I'd barely closed the door behind me when this fantastic stranger came over and asked, "Do you write a blog?"

Fear | Panic | Horror

"....Yes?"

"Oh my god. My sister's going to die. She's in the States. She loves you. Can I take your picture? I'm taking your picture." 

The three friends I'd walked in with exchanged a look that said, "How is this even happening -- Avril is the least cool person we know." 

I'm not going to lie: I am a magnet for unlikely experiences, but this? This was a moment. 

Allow me to set the stage: I'd just left my own going-away thing, dotted in tears, full of injera and regrets. I was in a dress gifted to me by the woman I thought would be my mother-in-law. My house has silent spaces in it where furniture and photos used to be. I was in no position to be sociable last night: I just wanted to control time -- fast-forward it, rewind it, pause it, anything. I had become obsessed with all the things I didn't get to do in Liberia, the things I'd taken for granted or said (or never said). I wondered why I'd put so much of myself into this blog only to leave Liberia feeling...unfinished. 

But then...the house party. And the girl. And the acceptance that I'm backing away from this country. And the knowledge I did something really dope while I was here. 

This is me, sinking the ball while moving away from the basket.