It’s barely dusk as we land,
fireworks bursting confetti
beneath us, covering over
the tidy patchwork farms.
He asks if the celebration is
for us – no, it is a holiday you
really ought to know, the
celebration of your country’s
independence. But you know
another date for that. The child
behind us wails, and her mother
shushes her, murmurs soft words
to say we are almost out now.
We trudge like lines of ants from the
village, clutching our dusty things
in tired hands, following whoever
is in front of us, hoping they know
the way. The line splits. We hover,
indecisive. They examine our blue
books and send us left with smiles
like we’ve gotten passing marks on
the maths test; the screaming child and
her mother have green and go right.
The gate-keeper stares bored,
wants to know if we have been on
any farms recently. We laugh. He
sprays us disinfected, showers away
the disease of our arrival, sends us
onward into the July night with stars
too different to recognise. I pull up
my trousers, re-buckle the belt we bought
a week ago in the dripping heat of
market, with the brightly sweating mother
yelling at her toddlers while we tried
to barter. The doors open like voodoo in
front of us, and the wall says welcome home
with the same confetti colours.