Pothole

Nana balances the radio atop her head. 

Gently, intuitive feet shuffle stones from the path and tentatively feel for potholes in the red road. 

Simultaneously slender henna dipped fingers turn the dial, different stations screeching and scratching out of the speaker. 

‘This is BBC world service reporting live at…’

The fabric of Nana’s orange mulfa dances with the wind. Dipping, diving and coasting like a circling bird of paradise. 

‘… Mopti region in central Mali reports gunmen shooting over 150 Fulani herders’

A layer of red dust has settled on the radio such that it is impossible to discern the original colour. 

Once the fingertips have done all they could do with the dial, a station is decided. 

‘Fama yé demisein bèyé fama yé massakèba

Fama yé demisein bèyé fama yé massakèba’

Blood spill is not news for Nana, blood spill is like pothole on red road. 

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