Sometimes, when there is silence, he creeps in. Shows up unexpected in the dead of night. When I least expect it. He came last night riding a tune by Ben Howard together with the image of a bamboo hut in Koh Pagnan. We sat there in the heat, smoking weed and eating Malaysian noodles from the supermarket. We didn’t care. They were spicy and hot and savoured them together. I would say we found this place by mistake. But actually, it called me. We drove the hills on a rented scooter, further and further till I spotted it, from the corner of my eye. The name is now lost and I couldn’t find it again if I tried. Tomorrow, I want you to take a photoshoot of me! I said. On the swing by the seashore. Waiting for Ulysses is the theme. And we burst out laughing. Our joy carried away by the wind.  It was dark. I can’t remember if for lack of electricity or because feeling each other’s presence was enough. Only the light on the cigarette wasting away. It was my birthday. My 28th.

She said interesting. Interesting, the way she always said it when she knew nothing about it, but could sense the possibility of importance beneath those words. Something she considered she might sometimes look into, but probably won’t. Trust in the law of serendipity to bring it back, if it needs to be part of her thoughts. Part of the story bag she’d pull stuff out of, over and over, to be able to contribute to the conversation. Apear almost afable to the ethraled audience. And on occasion, she would like to do that. On others, she mainly wanted to fall back. Head strangely devoid of thoughts. No matter anyway. Continue reading →

Sitting with a cappuccino and a Cretan breakfast in the beautiful and most importantly peaceful city of Rethymno just reminds me how the world is incompatible. Breakfast here costs 11 euros. About a third of the 23thousand naira given to a family of 7+ members to cover food needs during a cash-out in Maiduguri. Nutrition needs are painstakingly calculated to make sure donor money are not wasted. They say there are only nine meals between mankind and anarchy.

I landed in Maiduguri in early September. A hot and dusty town dotted with yellow Keke Napep, a sea of refugees, bullet shot marks, and pick-up trucks mounted with machine guns.  Young men dressed up in military kakis manned a seemingly endless stream of checkpoints. Young men looking fierce with deadly weapons, smiling like children at a wave. Hard to believe they were the ones fighting Boko Haram. That they would ensure my safety. Together with the barbed wire around my house, the 8pm curfew and the 18y.o. guard. An illusion I learned to embrace, even as news of suicide bombers and attacks all around steadily streamed in. I learnt much, including that the life of a humanitarian has nothing of the glamour I thought it did only six months ago. Continue reading →