Last night at about 8.00 pm, I'm on the back of a motorcycle, sitting side saddle, getting damp in the light rain that was falling in the aftermath of a furious thunderstorm. We're in the big market, which is pitch black except for the light of trash fires burning on the side of the road, kerosine lanterns and bare bulbs lit from small tiger generators. The fires throw up that unique smell of woodsmoke and plastic, so familiar to people used to living in Africa. We bobbed and weaved through the huge mudholes and hordes of people out chatting, visiting, working, cooking and generally just congesting the streets, leading me to be convinced that my boda boda driver was going to kill someone. When we got to the big intersection in the market, where the mosque is, a van drove past full of young girls, all singing hymns, oddly, all the ambient noise in the market had died down in that moment so all I heard was the sound of their voices and the patter of rain on my hoodie.
All this to say I sometimes forget how great the little experiences of my day are. They really are pretty freakin fabulous.