Africa in her ways is getting me. She is softly chipping away the layers of self that I have built up over the years. Like an old wise sculptress working on a blunt piece of wood, she moves slowly. Methodically caressing and touching the wood with her fine elongated fingertips. She must feel the wood in order to work with it. Sense it, find the weakest points and make them the beautiful features. Breaking apart the old growth bark, hard with the past, weathered, wildly overgrown, breathing. Yet these conditions hold nothing to the blade that she holds in her hands. As she caresses the wood, she has seen it before and nothing surprises her as for centuries people have been trying to change her, but it is Africa that holds the blade and the proof is in those touched by it.