Happy. On a morning when I don’t have a car, all engagements shifted to later in the day when the mechanic returns it. I have Fatoumata Diawara playing, the love song called Kanou, from the album Fatou. I am working on the revised edition of a memoir of a much older friend of mine, a babban yaya na, who was at the centre of the convulsions of my country in the crucial year 1966, and in the period since then until the mid-90’s. I’ve decided already yesterday to put some money in a mutual fund, having asked advice, and in the government’s new SUKUK development fund. My sisters are settled into their lives and are thriving. As are all the people I care about. My lawyering is going well. Most of my books are shelved.
And I think, maybe this is happiness? This morning thing. You hear songs of a land whose language you do not know but every verse is spoken in beauty. You are not afraid of any possible cash calls in the next two months. You have nowhere to go when you do not have to go anywhere. You wish to travel to East Africa again, but that won’t be until months yet and you are certain it will sort itself out. I’ve just brewed a coffee on a moka pot I’ve actually come to enjoy using. And this here is now happy.
I’ve been thinking about something I read recently, about happiness not coming from things. The writer wondered if a French caveman a thousand years ago was not exactly as happy as a French investment banker today. And I thought, how interesting. It is possible that for that caveman, that hut was the state of the art and he was indeed happy. Just as for our man today the apartment with a view to the Champ Elysees, or whatever it is investment bankers want to view, makes him indeed just happy. To each his own. To each his precise balance of chemicals in the brain.
On behalf of Fatoumata Diawara, who is now singing Makoun Oumou, and my half mug of excellent Uganda coffee, I salute you, my friend, my brother. Here’s to the little things and to our this moments.