The spinach leaf wakes up every morning to the sun crawling through the limbs of the nearby peach trees. The roosters are crowing and the cows are calling out. After the cool morning air passes, the war begins. It’s going to be another hot day under this African sun.
Every passing minute is an attempt to dodge the sun’s blistering bullets. The relief of temporary shelter is desperately sought after—the passing shadows from a tree, or just the right angle from the roof of a building. I would die for a cool breeze to run across the sweating creases of my face. Veins dilate as they threaten to burst through the skin in search for cooler air. Withered neighboring leaves can be seen scorched in the mulch—more battles lost against the sun. A dull drum picks up its cadence as each ray of the sun strikes like a mortar on the cranium and causes a throbbing headache. Despondently, a prayer is sent up to the sky asking for it to split open and pour out its sweet nectar. Or at least some air conditioning. Neither is to be had.
Finally, the spinach leaf opens its arms in warm acceptance of the approaching evening. Refuge can now be taken under the cool night sky.