A year ago today I convinced a Pakistani security guard to let me explode fire works in a playground.
Reluctantly, he allowed it.
My dear friends Dylan and Bea were pop’n off all kinds of dangerous Chinese made explosives, with me.
The pungent smell of sulfur and smoking cardboard.
The sound of a wick igniting.
The eerie silence after a good explosion.
A community, collectively holding its breath for more sounds.
And of course, autumn leaves blowing lazily in pale orange street lights.
Crisp dead leaves scratching the pavement.
As a soft but cool October breeze sails them through sleepy suburban corridors.
These are all crucial ingredients for a Halloween.
At least for me to feel Halloween.
Here in Africa, Halloween isn’t on anyone’s radar.
People scarcely know of it, those who claim to, think it’s an extension of a funeral.
All said, I miss Halloween.
(I should have worn a sash tonight that said miss Halloween)
All my great ideas come from sugar.
I decided to celebrate a private Halloween, because my bus leaves tomorrow at 5am.
I bought two chocolate bars and a box of Werther’s originals.
As I waited in line to pay, the little girl behind me, who looked like a Who, rubbed both her eyes with the knuckles of her index fingers.
Like a perfect sleepy child.
Her adorable demeanor forced me to add a Kinder Surprise to my pathetic Halloween haul.
After I payed, I handed the little girl the egg
“Happy Halloween” I said
She clutched it and said “Merci” at the instruction of her mom.
But she wouldn’t look at me.
It’s not unusual for little kids to freak when they see me.
In this way, I don’t have to wear a costume to spook anyone here.
“Oh! And what are you supposed to be?”
“A middle aged white guy with pony tail braids and a debilitating fear of extraterrestrials”
Look out Halloween 2020.