First we drop Mr. Chuma at a home near his farm. Pulling up, the smoke of a pit fire fills the air in the car. There are other lights further away, flickering through the woods. Mr. Chuma hops out and wishes us a good evening. He says he’s late for midnight church, and his wife and children are already there. As we pull away, I hear the faint yet unmistakable sound of hymns from among the trees.
Our final drop. I’m standing with my colleague among a circle of thatched-roof homes. Orange glows from the doorways, but we don’t peer inside. We’re staring up at the Milky Way draped across the night sky. “I think we’re finally nowhere.” she says to me… or I say to her -- I can’t quite remember. We’re exhausted, we’re quiet. A woman and some children mill about and we exchange greetings. I thought about randomness. All the unimaginable events that led us here, sharing space in this woods at nighttime