The call to prayer begins so faintly. You have to be still and stop breathing for a moment to sense it. Kojo hears it first. His face is wet with sweat and marked with his own dirty fingerprints from playing ball on the oiled stained concrete.
“It’s late now.” he says.
I recognize my own voice in his. That’s what I say when we are out and it’s time to start heading home. It’s usually my reply when he asks to walk down another street or visit somewhere that is too far to go-and-come before dark.
I wonder what time feels like for him. I can tell that he has begun to read some of the signs around us.
Kunga’s flip flops are discarded and he is leaning comfortably in his chair.
The fire is burning on the empty lot next to the goat on the corner.
The woody pods from the fallen tree are making music in the evening breeze.
Mayaa’s tailors are brooming the colorful scraps of cloth from the day’s work.
The smell of bread from the bakery is rising from it’s brown walls.
Evon is tirelessly braiding the top rows on her last customer’s head.
The girls are gathering at the water post with their empty plastic containers.
Margaret and Frida are working together to carry the heavy fabric display case inside.
The street lights are sparking and turning on dramatically one by one.
Majid is leaving his guard post and Patrick is lacing up his black boots.
The kitchen window is wide-open and Kojo Daddy is preparing dinner.
The white-clad singers have closed the back gate and the small church is quiet.
The bats pepper the sky and force our contemplation upward.
We start walking back home without saying a word to each other. I wonder what time feels like for him.