High Life |
On a road like other roads, where concrete forms into sectioned rectangles; leaves of mint trail where wheelbarrows once wheeled, where men hold out open palms hoping to fill them with coins to get by for another day, where music issues from stalls like a single file kindergarten line – rambunctious and energetic – and where men bargain the price of their goods, like the calls of an auctioneer I am here.
Among it all, I am here, on this road imitating the art of pouring Moroccan tea, with an elevated arm waiting for the infamous bubbles to appear and signal that I’ve got it right. Two more rounds of pouring will occur, before I finally sip green tea where mint will float. When I do, I’ll drink not just the tea but a culture, older than me, older than the rectangles. Long live it!