There were also a lot of good people here already.

It was today, as I sat in Martin’s house (one of our history/geography teachers) eating the best pounded yams I’ve ever eaten in my village, as I watched Martin lift his 18-month-old daughter on his legs like I used to beg my big sister/brother/dad to do when I was little, as his wife cracked a joke that caused me to laugh out loud again, as I remembered the smile that spread across Martin’s face when he walked into his backyard to find me pounding yams, as I thought about how there was not really any other person’s house I’d rather be at at that moment, that I realized something:

I was going to miss these people when I left.

Author’s typing-this-the-day-after-it-happened note: I was walking with Pierre, the other history/geography teacher today (who is also one of my favorites. There seems to be something about history/geo teachers here) when we passed Martin’s house. There was someone sitting on the front step of his neighbor’s house that could have been him, but I knew it wasn’t him when he didn’t run over to see me after I waved. He’s that kind of person.