"I'm writing to you from the bustling metropolis of Kandi," she began. And it must seem like a bustling metropolis to her, living in a village without electricity and running water. On the other hand, she intended irony. After all, she's a child of the suburbs, grew up in the shadow of our nation's capital, can maneuver a van around the Beltway at rush hour if need be.
Now, she travels on foot, bike, moto or bush taxi.
Seeing her message makes me want to drop everything, hop a jet to Cotonou and bush-taxi myself right up north to Kandi.
I won't, of course. Not yet, anyway. This is her world now. I write about it only to remark on how the written word brings her new life to us in such a special, immediate way. Words winging their way from one world to another with the stroke of a key.