I wake up. I make breakfast. Eggs, tomatoes, chopped onion, whatever greens are in season and market-available. I boil some water for coffee or tea, depending on my mood. I sit on the carpeted floor of my room to eat. I haven’t purchased a table or chairs. I keep telling myself that I’ll do it next weekend, and then I forget. So far it’s been alright. I rarely have guests over, and I don’t mind. Sometimes my colleague/boss S visits me. Sometimes the son of the houseowner, who lives one floor below me, comes up to talk and to laugh at me flailing around in the kitchen. One time, he and his friend felt sorry and showed me how to roast the garlic first. Then add the onion. Wait for it to brown. Chop the green veg (I’d just been throwing it in whole or cut in half). Use spices. He told me to purchase cumin, which has gone the way of the table and chairs. By which I mean the purgatory of Next Time I’ll Do It.
I go to work after breakfast. I open my laptop and do some reading on the day’s news on Digital Governance. I edit yesterday’s work. I’m helping to write some of the country’s first digital standards. I notice how similar all the standards are, country to country. I notice that the UK recently updated theirs. I double back to our draft. I wonder if I’m qualified to do this, and then I remember that they hired me for a reason, right? The best I can do is my best. I think about what sacrifice means. I think about what making the right decision means. I think about navigating your 20s. And I think about doing good work. I want to do some great fucking work. That’s always my goal when I start a project. I go back to editing. To dreaming. To thinking about how we can do things better. And how I can help.
After work, I walk home. It’s a seven-minute walk. The sun is still going strong at 5:30 pm. I’m careful not to step on any of the cow patties. There are many. The roads are shared with pedestrians, and tuk-tuks, and motorbikes, and the rare car. There aren’t any lines on the road, but there are rules. Stick to the left side. Walk in a straight line, no sudden movements. When you need to cross the road, do it with intention and confidence. I mostly avoid eye-contact. Is that a city-person thing? Growing up in Toronto, in a rougher neighbourhood in Scarborough, I perfected the art of looking without really looking. It’s a combination of glazed-over eyes and some shiftiness.
Once home, the first thing I do is turn on the ceiling fans. Heat rises, and I’m on the top floor, which means I get double heat from the sun that bears down on the roof all day. It’s usually 35-40 degrees Celsius. I’m told that it will get cooler in around two months. I count down the days.
Counting down the days. There really isn’t much else to do. And I don’t begrudge it. I live in my head, mostly. I spend time with the family I live with. I spend time with S. There’s something going on in this country, the youth are leaving in droves in a mass movement of brain and labour drain. The public spaces are all full of men. I miss female friendships. I am grateful for A, and H, and S, the three counterparts my age who I’ve become close to. But I miss the particular joy of girls giggling over something.
But I like being alone. I’m not an only child, but I grew up one. Just me and my mom. I spent a lot of time by myself in my youth. Days to weeks on end. In my room, just me, my books, and my imagination. I remember sitting in front of my mirror and talking to myself. In fact, I did that just yesterday. It’s a ritual. It’s calming. I am my first friend. Sitting with yourself is freeing. I’m glad to have gotten away from the noise of the city. The noise of too many around you. I have space to move. I have space to dream. I have space to simply be.
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