Diouncoulane

MALI. Bamako. 1994. Patrick Zachmann

The air hangs heavy with the scent of Diouncoulane, as the train shudders to a complete stop. It is bright, and blinding is the clothing worn by the women rushing to the train with heads that bring joy to the stomach. Though standing, his knees begin to bear the weight of his impending arrival. He doesn’t know where, though he knows he is close. He feels a heightened sense of familiarity, and this only serves to cloud his sense of belonging. Outer serenity is inner turmoil masked by these frames that slip his fingers like the fine dust that surrounds the locomotive. Clinging, this train must drag its heels and not become a vessel that condemns him to the surroundings he waged zealous war to depart. Returning, and gone full circle represents the void in which the unsuccessful fall. Forthright is the intention, though birth already is unintended thus life itself follows a similar path. He seeks to avoid the wrath, time-pressured laugh that echoes with every footstep. In the distance is Diouncoulane, and the world swells in his throat. Though the sprout has sprung, like those around, covered are jagged thorns that hang from every sinew. In the periphery appears a boy, feet dried by the soil herding cattle before Monday’s rise for study