And so here we seat, quietly, amongst ourselves, helplessly rocking in this rickety wooden boat, contemplating about the events of the day. Our guide is now helplessly drunk and gleefully so, what else is he to do on such a beautiful Saturday evening? As I sit here, watching the sun set in its warm orange glow, I find my mind drifting as it has been for the past couple of days. I find myself thinking of her and her hair. I smile, wistfully. She had such beautiful hair. I envied her hair. She had told us, at one point, of how, after they were of substantial length, her locks had began drawing too much attention to her and how, irritated, she had to constantly ward off unwanted advances when random boys or men, trying to win her attention, called her 'Rasta' as she walked home. And so, logically and in the spirit of our friendship, every time I met her, i playfully called her Rasta, just to irritate her. However, despite my best efforts, it always solicited a reaction that was never, to me, satisfactory. In retrospect, I guess, by then, she was already accustomed to it, or, I tend to think now, on this boat, that she had known, all along, what my intensions had been and consequently never let me have what I wanted. Instead, she smiled at me, affectionately, and called me by that name I have never really liked: 'rexienyoo'- we would both burst into laughter afterwards and maybe have some evening tea.
As I sit, here, on this wretched boat, thinking about her and her hair, I fail to understand how she is not here, with me, with us, on this boat, looking out at that beautiful glow in the horizon, listening to our silly drunken guide and his silly made up stories, feeling this warm western breeze beat against our naked faces.
As I sit here, I fail to understand.