There are days nothing spectacular happen in our lives. Just routines. And yet one day we look back, and miss those ordinary times.

Like I am looking back right now and seeing myself beside a tomato farm right behind our school wall.

Almost everyday, while teaching in a classroom on the last floor, I stole glances at the workers on the farm below.

At first, it was just one gentleman with a watering can, going back and forth a little well at the edge of the small farm. Then when the green fruits were turning red, the true owners showed their faces.

The tomato farm was beautiful. There were garden eggs too, and I think a few okro.

“How much is a kilo?“ I asked the farm owner one day when I could no longer stand the temptation.

While he responded, I searched for the path that led to the tree under which they sat bagging the vegetables.

There were no weighing scales so I stated  the amount I wanted to buy.

“Cinq cent francs ! “ I indicated and was surprised to see the large quantity of tomatoes I was offered.

” The  grocers in my neighborhood were cheats!“ I said to myself while smacking my lips at my bounty.

“Merci.” I thanked the salesmen as I headed first to Madame Diara’s house before going home.

On my way, I  imagined the things I would  see when I get there. Aisha would walk towards the gate, amidst the dog’s barking, asking “C’est qui ?“

“C’est le maître !“ I would scream my response since the huge gate and the noise inside sometimes makes it hard for them to hear.

Then came the voice of her mistress, demanding to know what the knock on the gate was all about. Her voice always descends from her room upstairs. Her tone changes once Aisha tells her it’s her son’s home tutor.

After that, the gate opened. In I walked, greeted by the sight of many flowers in a home and the two parrots on the pavement.

As usual, I’m reminded of what makes a home: people. Because their home is a big broken home with the sense of separation tangible enough for all who come in to touch and feel.

I finish my job and hurry to wait at a junction for a taxi – the yellow tricycles imported from India. I can hear them coming even as I write. I feel my bag to be sure the tomatoes were there, dreaming of the recipes I intend using them for.

As the tricycle speeds off the dusty path unto the highway, I’m lost in thoughts… Can’t remember all the things I used to worry about… All I’m left with now is… nostalgia for ordinary days gone with the wind.