Nyamwanga Kumva

It’s Sunday.
I’m listening to music from Rwanda on Spotify.
The man who wrote the song
was murdered in 1994.
His brother is the singer.
I’ve just read a moving account
of a woman who survived by pretending
to be dead
at the rock concert in Paris on Friday night.

It’s Sunday.
I had a small party last night
and I’m not sure what to do today.
The dog needs a proper walk
and my room is a bit of a mess.
I’m at the dining table,
with the garden doors open.
It’s very mild for November.

It’s Sunday.
I’m washing towels.
Although it’s not sunny
it’s quite windy, so they might dry outside.
I did a hot wash, with prewash,
so it will take a long time.
There’s a 2 minute vid on Facebook.
Russel Brand, How to solve terrorism.
I haven’t watched it.

It’s Sunday.
The music has stopped.
The songwriter was Manassaé Havugimana,
his brother the singer Janvier.
The other band members are
Adrien Kazigira and Stanislas Hitimani
The band is called The Good Ones.
I wonder how much they get from Spotify
when I listen to their music.

It’s Sunday.
The music is playing again.
Beautiful love songs from Africa.
All over the world we mourn the dead.
The woman’s name is Isobel Bowdery.
She survived.
She put a picture of her blood-stained top
with her words.
Her words are moving.

It’s Sunday.
I don’t watch the news much,
and I don’t buy newspapers.
I read a bit about Paris on my tablet,
the Guardian app is free,
and the Al Jazeera app.
And Facebook of course.
All life is there, and death.
Tom Stokes shared Isobel’s account.
Thanks, Tom.

It’s Sunday.
I won’t be going to church.
I never do.
The washing machine is spinning,
but I think it still has a way to go.
I’m playing the song again.
Nyamwanga Kumva!
“Stubborn Until the End”
Yeah right!

It’s Sunday.
A card has just dropped through my letterbox.
An invitation from my local church
to a Christmas Tree Festival.
Bizarre notion, but no matter.
It’s a nice card,
with a child’s painting
of a Christmas Tree
on the front, and dates for Christmas events and services.
I expect they’ve been praying
this morning.

It’s Sunday.
I’ve put the Christmas Tree card
in the bin.
It seems a shame,
it was very well produced,
but it’s the right thing to do.
A thought:
If we stop making bombs and guns and killing people
in other countries
they might stop killing us.

It’s Sunday.
I may have put too many towels
in the washing machine.
It’s making a strange noise.
It may be too windy to hang them on the line.
I think I’ll tidy my room.
Maybe go for a walk this afternoon.
I had porridge for breakfast,
with cream left over
from the party.
I put four dates with it,
and chopped up an apple
that I grew in my garden.
I made coffee
with my Aeropress coffee maker.
I spilled the first cup
and had to make another.
I ate two croissants
with lashings of butter.
I might learn a little Norwegian today,
or Spanish.
I live in Chichester.
In Southern England.
I can hear gulls calling,
and the wind rushing through the fruit trees.
I can’t stop writing.
I’ve lost the neat verses.
The washing machine has survived.
My life goes on.
Stubborn until the end.