The morning following his return to Kwatee Republic, Kalumba was awakened by the sound of pots and pans. He dressed and stepped outside, barefoot, into the small lawn, so manicured and green that against the ring of black soil feeding the red rose bushes and surrounding ring of white carnations, the grass looked like it was made of plastic.
It was cold. Not the excessive winter cold he had left behind; here, it was cold because it was still early in the morning. He ran his bare feet against the grass to let the morning dew cool him into waking up fully. He walked over to the place where, before he left ten years ago, he remembered a pigsty and a chicken barn. Only the foundations, and occasional rotting planks of wood, overgrown by weeds and healthy looking strawberry bushes, remained.
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