What Is Important Is The Story. Because

The Land Itself, Of Course, Was Careless Of Its Name. It Still Is. You Can Call It What You Like, Fight All The Wars You Want In Its Name. Change Its Name Altogether If You Like. The Land Is Still Unblinking Under The African Sky. It Will Absorb White Man's Blood And The Blood Of African Men, It Will Absorb Blood From Slaughtered Cattle And The Blood From A Woman's Birthing With Equal Thirst. It Doesn't Care.

I Always Knew Mum Loved Me - Tough, Look-after-yourself Love, As If She Knew She Wouldn't Always Be There.

In Ways I Don't Entirely Have The Words For An Experience, Thought Or A Lesson Isn't Real For Me Until I've Written Down.

What Is Important Is The Story. Because When We Are All Dust And Teeth And Kicked-up Bits Of Skin - When We're Dancing With Our Own Skeletons - Our Words Might Be All That's Left Of Us.

I Don't Think We Have All The Words In A Single Vocabulary To Explain What We Are Or Why We Are. I Don't Think We Have The Range Of Emotion To Fully Feel What Someone Else Is Feeling. I Don't Think Any Of Us Can Sit In Judgment Of Another Human Being. We're Incomplete Creatures, Barely Scraping By. Is It Possible--from The Perspective Of This Quickly Spinning Earth And Our Speedy Journey From Crib To Coffin--to Know The Difference Between Right, Wrong, Good, And Evil? I Don't Know If It's Even Useful To Try.