covered hill in the distance,
nonchalantly remarked, “The
hill is carrying clouds (on its
head)”, told of the poetry of
Kirundi; and the minivan’s
conductor (locally called
convoyeur) who begged and
cajoled you sweetly to enter
his car and turned into a firebreathing Shylock as soon as
you were firmly inside told
me, well, that these guys are
the