Dusk

I am a long way from Africa now, both in distance and in time, for it is eleven years since we were last on holiday there, in Tanzania, and over fifty years since we were last resident, in what was then called Rhodesia, yet there are feelings, sensations, that remain as fresh and sharp as if I were there now; and these sometimes come to me, for no particular reason; a burst of memory which then fades.

Dusk is one of them, for there is nothing quite like the coming of night on that ancient continent, when the day noises fade, the land darkens, and there is an expectant hush while the sky bursts in a last explosion of reds and oranges and yellows. It is a time of primaeval fear, the last light before the dark cloaks the threat of the night creatures, the time when man huddled round the safety of the fire.

I remember, with gratitude that I experienced many such dusks and that their sensations are still fresh. I will not feel them, see them, live in them again. I leave that to others.