My village is not on the map. It’s small and unassuming. We don’t grow cash crops. We don’t have notable heroes. We don’t have a tarmacked road- all we have is a ragged dusty winding path that climbs hills and slithers down plains like a jaded vein.
I might not be a people’s person, but I talk to people. I have to. It’s my corn. It’s my bread. If I didn’t talk to people my little girl would starve and start eating her nails,
I intended to blog twice a week. But just when I was about to bang out something late last week I hit a man. Yes, I hit a man. Run him down. Mowed him over.