Photo courtesy: Gary Rodgers — Wikimedia Commons
I walked home along a quiet Dar es Salaam street. Although it was about two a.m., the sound of grasshoppers filled the air. Around every streetlight were teams of green grasshoppers, their wings fluttering as if their lives depended on the buttery glow.
Africans cooked them, and I regret I never discovered how they tasted. I did write a poem about the experience which is now tucked away in a memory box and every now and then I drag it out to relive that special night.
That was in the days when I wrote poetry. Now I’m working on manuscripts.