texte anglais
"How about the netting?" Chris called from the living room where he sat with Devi.
"Already in," Fi answered.
"And repellent?" asked Devi.
"Yes,yes." Fi waved her dand as though shooing away a gnat.
Early on in her research about Kenya, she'd discovered that the country's annual death toll from malaria was in the tens of thousands.
She had pills; she had repellents; logically, she knew she'd be fine. Still, a figure that high jolted her. Mbu - mosquito - had been the first swahili word she's learned. Sometimes the insects even dive-bombed into her nightmares. Eventually, mosquitoes became a metaphor for everything she feared about this trip: all the stories she'd read about a violent and chaotic continent, plus the jitters that come with the unknown.
And what wasn't unknown? All she knew for sure, in fact, was why she was going. Fi's mom had never been a big talker, but she'd been a hero, raising four kids alone. Now it was Fi's turn to do something worthwhile.
"Fi." Chris, at the door of the bedroom, waved in the air the paper on which he'd written a list of all the items he thought she should bring and might forget. Money belt. Hat. Granola bars. "Have you been using this?" he asked half-mockingly in the tone of a teacher.
"I hate lists," Fi said.
Fi moved to the living room and plopped onto the floor across from Devi. Chris oured Fi a glass of cabernet and sat in the chair nearest her.
"You know, there's lots of illiteracy in this country," Devi said after a moment. "that's why I've been volunteering after work," Fi said. "But there, it's different. They've never