Chronicles of Fly

I’m standing in the middle of a dry Oshana which seems to stretch on endlessly, from where I stand to the horizon. I look across to see thousands of grey mud cracks, curving up, as if to smile at me. Traversing the sea of mud cracks is a group of barefoot children in rag tag uniforms. They trot along, each with a homemade sling bag on the shoulder. I stop to catch my breath and as the morning breeze dries my brow, the gap between me and them starts to grow, I fall further behind. My short legs start to ache, the sandals on my feet feel like anchors, so I stop, I look back and I can’t even see home anymore. I start walking again and out of nowhere she walks towards me, long legs eating up the ground like a marathon runner. She reaches into her bag and flings a plastic bottle of Ontaku at me (a drink with the energy equivalent of 3 red bulls). I gleefully accept, opening it slowly to avoid it frothing and overflowing, and I chuck down a few refreshing gulps. She asks if I can run