*

” Are these the days when thou dost gird thyself and walkest where thou wouldest – battle days, crowded and burdened and yet lit with praise, days of adventure; eager, glorious choice folded in every hour?  Rejoice, rejoice, o happy warrior, if so it be, for surely thou shalt see Jesus himself draw near and walk with thee.”

                                                                                                   — Amy Carmichael

…nattie.trap…

earlier this month I spent a few days backpacking in arkansas with God, charles (my lab) and myself.  the past couple months had been quite a blur – a lovely one don’t get me wrong – but a blur none the less. the plan was to corner God and get some solutions, some alterations, some “provision.”  4 days, 30 miles, mountains, backpack, journal, bible, genie lamp = perfect God trap.  on the drive, however, the kaleidoscope face of celebrations, travel, tears, country mornings, deaths, relationships and new beginnings began to birth the solid black times new roman font  ”I EXIST TODAY, THE WAY I AM, BECAUSE ….” among a few other thought provoking statements that ill spare you.  the realization began to ooze in that i was fine and excited about the company of God and charles on this outing. . . it was the myself part i was becoming uneasy with.  4 days, 30 miles, mountains, backpack, journal, bible . . . perfect nattie trap. purely, individually – me .  and not just purely, individually me; but purely, individually me whom was (being informed quite unsubtly) about to be put under a microscope. great. MAGNIFIED purely, individually me. gross. i didnt wanna be under a microscope.  under a microscope i’m not a concept anymore.  i have a framework, i have weight.  I have waste, scars and parts with functions and names all working together to do an intentional job.  under a microscope im not vague anymore….im tangible and im accountable. in the bustle i can make myself believe i exist simply to water my garden, buy bread so the baker can pay rent, brew the perfect pot of tea (thanks mel), get an education, analyze a good indy flick or dance a sweaty mess under a full moon.  i can convince myself i exist to write my best friends beautiful letters, have theological conversation over a pint, lob a frisbee across rural wildflower fields, read c.s. lewis and tennyson or pitch a tent while the crickets and bullfrogs serenade me.  i can weave in and out of this tapestry an elegantly wafting pattern of social justice, environmentalism, healthcare, friendship and religion just for pizazz.  ill be quick to say i believe in the power of love, in one true God, salvation through Jesus Christ soley and the beauty of giving until you really feel it – then giving more.  i believe all of these things are strategic, lovely and (by no mistake) make up who i am.  i believe its important to be flexible in allowing my “role” in this life to evolve, change shape, to grow while using the tools ive been given.  i believe right now i’m blessed and honored to live a life that challenges, facilitates and sometimes even solicits most of these things.   however….

do all of these things actually complete the statement, “I EXIST TODAY, THE WAY I AM, BECAUSE …”?  does the creator command one more breath after one more breath after one more breath so REI doesn’t go out of business?  so that pesky bud lite can is picked up off the ground and put into the proper recycling receptacle?  so people discover the beauty that is microbrewing and stop drinking effing bud lite in the first place?  EVEN so that the man on the corner gets one more meal and a smile?  no.  ”I EXIST TODAY, THE WAY I AM, BECAUSE THERE ARE STILL THOSE WHO HAVE NOT HEARD THE GOSPEL OF SALVATION THROUGH JESUS CHRIST.”  its the “THE WAY I AM” part where our artistic, adventurous and poetic creator displays his creativity and unmatched capability. don’t downplay it. don’t belittle it. don’t starve it …. don’t cling to it, don’t control it, don’t idolize it.  foster it, be a steward of it …. within the framework of that “BECAUSE”.

yes. admittedly, as humans, we want to lose the framework, neglect certain parts and remain a tangled (yet beautifully adorned mind you) mass of self-destructive potential with a hauntingly innate sense of brokenness.  and He longs for us.  as a christian, its the hope in this redemptive desire, the acknowledged price on my life, the urgency in the hourglass and the intimacy with my creator that directs my steps.

if you know your “BECAUSE”, claim it.  if you dont – i pray you find it.

 

iloveyou,

nattie

…circles…

“I live  in nature, where everything is connected, circular.  The seasons are circular.  The planet is circular, and so is its passage around the sun.  The course of water over the earth is circular, coming down from the sky and circulating through the world to spread  life and then evaporating up again.  I live in a circular teepee and I build my fire in a circle, and when my loved ones visit me, we sit in a circle and talk.  the life cycles of plants and animals are circular.  I live outside where I can see this.  the ancient people understood that our world is a circle, but we modern people have lost sight of that.  I don’t live inside buildings, because buildings are dead places where nothing grows, where water doesn’t flow, and where life stops.  I don’t want to live in a dead place.  People say that I don’t live in the real world, but its modern Americans who live in a fake world, because they’ve stepped outside the circle.  Do people live in circles today?  No.  They live in boxes.  They wake up every morning in the box of their bedroom because a box next to them started making beeping noises to tell them it was time to get up.  They eat their breakfast out of a box and then they throw that box away into another box.  Then they leave the box where they live and get into a  box with wheels and drive to work, which is just another big box broken up into lots of little cubicle boxes where a bunch of people spend their days sitting and staring at the computer boxes in front of them.  When the day is over, everyone gets into the box with wheels again and goes home to their house boxes and spends the evening staring at the television boxes for entertainment.  They get their music from a box, they get their food from a box, they keep their clothing in a box and tailor their dreams to fit a box….. you are not handcuffed to your culture.”

“Revere your senses; don’t degrade them with substances, with depression, with willful oblivion.  Try to notice something new every day.  Pay attention to even the most modest of daily details.  Even if you’re not outside, be aware at all times.  Notice what food tastes like; notice what the detergent aisle in the supermarket smells like and notice what a wildflower field smells like – then notice the difference.  Notice what bare feet feel like; pay attention every day to the vital insights that mindfulness can bring.  Take care of all things, of every single thing there is – your body, your intellect, your spirit, your neighbors, and the planet.  Don’t pollute your soul with apathy or or spoil your health with junk food any more than you would deliberately contaminate a clean river with industrial sludge.  You can never have real character if you have a careless and destructive attitude, but maturity will follow mindfulness even as day follows night.”

– Eustace Conway

 

iloveyou, nattie

…one.fine.morning…

im lying in the dark with a sore throat and a stuffy nose.  ive been to two funerals in 5 days, heard of one missing father of two off the fishing docks on the gulf and a suicide attempt gone ICU.  my baby niece will never know her father and ive spent one too many hours locking gazes with bloodshot eyes begging for the cravings simply to cease.  i wrestle for an exception in the cosmos for those i love. for myself. here. now. today.  to make redemption happen before my eyes for this flesh so i dont have to feel the deterioration encasing my soul and crumbling under my feet.   in a moment of fatigue and seeming defeat, i  cried out “Its not supposed to be this way.”  He whispered, ” I know.”  i was, without realizing it, aching for heaven.  i was aching for the day of Christ’s return.  how often do i a pout and curse  because i dont see it?  because i’m not seeing this fallen world, this broken body through redeemed eyes?  i dont realize that my condition, because strong ulterior motives, are inevitable.  i want it all now.  i want him to make us whole and comfortable, now.  i want to be restored and immortal – now.  we want the world to not be subject to pain, deterioration, perversion or death . . . . now….so does He.  i accuse my God and creator of not being relational, because he obiously doesnt identify with my pain.  obviously, or he would fix it.  I  ball my fists, shaking bulging veins toward the sky He supposedly spoke into being, screaming that He must not know my desire. must not care.

i’d dare say the outcome of that desire has been skewed.

didnt the Apostle Paul himself feel what i feel?  didnt Jesus feel the decomposing weight of gravity?  feel that life hurt? didnt Paul say in 2 Cor 5:4-7

⁴For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not wish to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. ⁵Now it is God who has made us for this very purpose and has given us the Spirit as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come. ⁶Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. ⁷ We live by faith, not by sight. ⁸We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord.

the difference seems, to me, to be the constructive outcome.  Paul saw miracles, felt miracles, but did not live for them.  he felt them as a blessing – a respite and beautiful glimpse of what would eventually be afforded him as a side note, and only as a side note of being reunited with his creator.  he wanted them as an encounter with the living God, not as check marks on his laundry list of ailments.  he knew God knew.  he understood that God’s provision was in Christ’s death.  That there were still so many who hadn’t heard.  when im faced with the ugly reality of living in a fallen world,  i couldnt often care less that He’s allowing “more time”, that one day he will be glorified in redemption – i just want to feel the outcome of that redemption, and honestly im pissed if i dont. i feel ive been cheated if i dont. of course God wants us to experience relief, of course he wants to heal us, and he has – through the crucifiction.  the times Paul did pray for the Lord to move was because his desire to be with the Lord was so strong – he ached to be near to him.  the topic of miracles, deliverance and healing is so difficult.  it is one that brings division and distress to so many – including myself.  a truth the Lord revealed to me early last year was that we live in a fallen world.  sound simple enough?  sound like something you already know? have already come to terms with?  then why are we angry when our loved ones die?  why do we pout when year after year we struggle with the same struggles – fight the same fights?  why aren’t we delivered how and when we ask to be?  because you, me, the grass, the ozone, the flowers – this world – is dying.  there is a natural progression to “life.”  a natural slippery slope, painful progression and ultimate termination to “life.”  i have come to believe ive had it backwards.  for the majority of my life i have believed i should expect to be healed.  expect to be provided for.  expect to be reconciled –  the exciting part is that, yes, Christ died – so that we could cry out with joyful hope and anticipation in the day that we will no longer be subject to the elements, for the day that we and creation will be redeemed.  yes – that day is coming, be joyful in the knowledge that one fine morning – this life WILL be over, but until then – we have the hights lows, ups downs, smiles and frowns that go with this life.  learn from it, seize it with urgency.  see that there may just be something much more valuable than “healing” to be gained.  the present beauty is in the physical glimpses of that eventual full relief.  in the exceptions when God, for some unknown reason in his wisdom, knowledge and perfect will, works against the natural progression.  when he pauses the elements and all logic to work out of the ordinary to change the course of the deterioration by intervening.  THOSE are the beautiful, rare gifts.  its natural to mourn over the fall of this world – what’s unnatural, not of this world, is to take that mourning and turn it into a hope, craving and anticipation – not of this world is what we are called to be.  i will not live forever in this body.  neither will you, actually. 

 

~maranatha, Lord~

…ace.of.stars…

gravity glues my crown to the grass, gaze fixed upward – or so it appears to me.  gravity is funny that way. making one feel upright when the right side fully depends on where one is. after all, we are the center of our own perceived universes.  poor chumps on the other side of the planet don’t even know they’re upside down.  ah well – so goes life.  depth perception was trumped hours ago by the ace of stars. ace of stars? i suppose your universe forgot to tell you life gambled with different suites – no wonder you’re losing.  the occasional blinking jumbo jet catapults me back into orientation, but only for a moment. in that moment, i can squint and measure the bird with my pinky nail.  nose to tail, i figure roughly  a dozen could fit across the length of my hand – five down the width.  hmmmm, 60 jet planes in my palm – multiplied by, what, 400 passengers at the least?  not including kiddies and crew.  in the palm of my soil rooted, calloused hand rest 24,000 hypothetical souls.  minimum.  some are new to the phenomenon of flight – others were practically born with silky down.  a portion are fast asleep, a fraction lost in their literary vice of choice and most likely a half searching expectantly for the beverage cart .  some are existing in silence, while others attempt the obligatory awkward pleasantry with the flesh cloaked encroachment on their personal bubble.  some erroneously immortal in their adolescent ideology alongside others forced by doctors visits and lab results to face impending mortality.  will they embrace it? will they succumb to crippling defeat? this one sits intertwined, caressing a body cherished above his own.  some are existing leagues elsewhere with loves waiting, loves lost, loves waiting only  to be lost. there are those squirming in delightful anticipation of the journey ahead and those churning with dreadful anxiety.  some newly born.  some long since dead.  

 .I have been all of these souls. 

neatly packaged in your  hypothetical metal carton, quarantined thousands of miles above, i am more compassionate and gracious in my reaction to you in seat 21F.  i am quicker to admit you are hurting, more ready to note there is pain and tragedy in your universe affecting your responses to what the day presents you.  this is mostly due to the fact that, while you are miles above, it is impossible for you to ding my new car with your door inconsiderately swung amuck or cut me off in obnoxiously long checkout lines. you aren’t an inconvenience to me. position you laterally, a few blocks down, and suddenly you’re relevant.  suddenly i actually have to formulate a response to you. i can profess to care that you don’t have the cash for lunch or know where next months rent is coming from, because i have set my credit card to an automatic charitable contribution once a month and re budgeted so i no longer even feel its absence.  i have left the flight crew to stare into your hollowed eyes and the ipod in your head as companionship.  i judge you for spending a small country’s worth on new toys after tuning out your blatantly frantic search for fulfillment. you’ve resorted to self medication, self preservation, realized metal and lace wont reject you.

 .i have, once again, rejected you for it.

…love.well…

i havent written in some time –  ive missed it.  its been quite a journey as of late.  if im not careful, i will have missed that too.  almost two years ago I had the word selah permanently stamped in my own handwriting on my left wrist.  as a charge. a reminder. a landmark. words hold  oceans of meaning for me as they do for most, im sure. mailed letters. poetry. songs. puns. scripture. quotes. history. just to name a few.  the Lord knows this and He uses them in mighty ways in our relationship.  selah was one he expounded on to a radiant degree in my life, specifically over a period of about 4 months.  if you arent familiar with it, it is a word King David often placed at the end of his Psalms.  it is unknown what it means exactly or how it translates to English, but the closest gander is that it is a musical term stressing the importance of the preceding passage, calling to pause and listen or stop and reflect.   selah is not the point of this post, it is only to show that although i tell myself every second of every day to weave the moments, the breaths, the hearts that have brought me thus far into the current ones, i still become so caught up in the here and now that i forget the poetry, i forget the journey.

 love. loving well, however, is the point of this post.

i recently had a beautiful conversation with a beautiful friend who’s mother had just passed.  in it, i was forced to pause.  i was forced to reflect. selah was forced through my veins and into circulation.  it had been teetering for a while.  for a stent, i have been tired of remembering what loss felt like, tired of  guestimating when it would come again. ive been really tired.  the mercy, grace and wisdom He reveals when we are so tired is telling, because its obvious it didnt come from me.  there are many aspects of love and why it is so valuable to all parties involved – and many beautiful aspects of life that call for celebration, which is why this has been difficult for me in the past:

“It is better to go to the house of mourning, than to the house of feasting: for that is the end of all men; and the living will lay it to his heart.”  – Ecc 7:2

you most likely see holes. there can be a selfish aspect of mourning.  mourning from guilt, mourning from regret, mourning from personal fulfillment and satisfaction being lost. that is not the “house of mourning” I am addressing and not the one written of in scripture. I wondered why He would want me to suffer, why he wouldnt want me to feast.  i failed to selah. i failed to reflect on what i knew of His character,  what i had personally experienced of His character.  the more i find myself in the “house of mourning,” the more i find myself in grief over legitimate loss, the more the signs read that I have loved well and the more depth and richness will continue to grow from the experience.  not simply because I am in mourning over things causing pain to me, but I am now also in the position to truly experience mourning over things causing others pain, causing Him pain.  the network grows. we are mortal, the world is broken. the more i love, the more i give, the more im open to experiencing this fragility – more is lost, more is broken, more is in turmoil – more is provided, more is poetic.  this can be traded, sure.  life can be lived shallowly in full party mode shoving relationship, depth and sacrifice to the far corners or mulching them up in a ravenous consumption and expulsion.  poetry can be avoided. But few things present themselves as more miserable than a house of mourning built for one.

ive come to such a comforting and addicting peace that in lives lived well, in lives of loving well – we should look to often finding ourselves in the house of mourning. a beautiful, comforting, rich, peaceful and yes even life giving house of mourning.  Not to request or seek out tragedy, but to be alive and active among a broken and mortal world.

ihopetoloveyou.

nattie

.tip.of.the.bergs.

(HINT: Wrote this while listening to Iron and Wine’s “Boy With a Coin” on the Shepherd’s Dog album.  The song’s rhythm has such great flow so I used it as a guide. If you  listen to it – or at least remember the tune – while reading, it makes it a little more melodic**)

iloveyou ~NR

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Crisp fog frothed walks like head on a pint

that bled from a tap of unfurling life.

Frozen stiff hands with icicles grown

from refrozen hearts of once melting snow.

He shuffles along, hair curling in back

peaks out from a hood, he found in their trash.

The shame on his face can’t soon be disguised

the scars run too deep from dart throwing eyes.

Longing to give and aching to taste

still halted by cold straight forward gaze.

The tip of the bergs pierce ambitious ships

From under the glass, the impact is missed.

.if.you’re.having.trouble.

If you’re having trouble finding me, consider the crowns of the orchard trees.

Toes scantly clad in sunrise dew, oft’ swing gleefully akin the fertile fruit.

Life’s throb curled in awaiting death, for death brings life.  This tree knows best.

If you’re having trouble finding me, peer from mount’s summit to valley green.

Propelled by wonder with hound in tow, twixt crag and river where Poppy grow.

Breathe out-look up, inhale-spin round, find freedom i’ve found in falling down.

If you’re having trouble finding me, let your soul pulsate with what poets speak.

An azure depth, a wordless tune, measure your fleeting life out in coffee spoons.

For life seen through another’s eyes, sweeps scar and dust from shallow minds.

If you’re having trouble finding me, launch your heart to where the sparrow sings,

glide your mind along horizon’s curve, linger on first kisses and skipped  beat’s nerve.

Dive deep ’til deafening silence gives strong voice to forgotten things once lived.

My form never skilled in great display, nor batting lash, not in games they play.

I’ve asked campfires to keep me warm, blazing lovers through nightfall’s social storms.

Yet time and again seeps in new dawns, a campfire must drown when I trek on.

In trekking I’ve failed at being seen, and fear you’ll fail at finding me.

I can’t give word I’ll slow pace soon, I’ve begun to climb by light of moon. 

Yet if the chance should ‘er arise, to brush new hughes on sunset skies.

I’ll soon take form, ill soon show face, do come stitch clouds with silver lace.

~

Garfield Elementary, Seattle WA

consider.conscious.consumption

November 16, 2008 – New York Times

15 and Broke in a Cut-Throat

Congo Mining Town

By LYDIA POLGREEN

BISIE, Congo — The people who toil in the tin ore mine here are links in a long, global chain that reaches all the way to the cellphones and digital music players so ubiquitous in modern life.

At the very bottom of that chain, hunched beneath the blasting sun in a deep red gash near the base of a mountain, a 15-year-old named Imani Mulumeo Derwa sifted through ochre-colored earth this summer with his slender fingers.

In a small plastic bag, he stowed tiny rocks he hoped were tin ore. If the day went well, he might find enough ore to buy a plate of rice and beans. If not, he would fall asleep hungry on a dirt floor.

Every Thursday, he must hand over a day’s wages to Col. Samy Matumo’s men, who control the mountain and illegally extract taxes from every enterprise here. Imani arrived in July, hoping to save enough money to return to school at the end of September. But by early August, he found himself trapped in a web of debt and despair.

“I am stuck here,” he said, his weary, almond-shaped eyes betraying traces of a war-tossed childhood otherwise invisible on his smooth, boyish face. “I want to go home but I can’t.”

On July 6, Imani arrived at the head of the winding 30-mile jungle trail leading to the mine at Bisie. He said he had joined a river of people streaming into the forest, men and women laden with crates of beer, sacks of rice and cartons of powdered milk, all destined for Bisie, a town in the middle of the jungle where, Imani had heard, a hardworking boy could earn a few hundred dollars by picking up bits of a certain heavy rock from the ground.

Like many children in this war-ravaged country, Imani looks younger than he is. He said he had spent much of his childhood in flight from the latest armed group swarming into his hometown, Walungu. The gnawing hunger of life on the run has left him stunted, a little more than four feet tall. His voice has not yet broken.

All that running meant he was far behind in school, having completed only the fourth grade. But he was determined to finish high school and go on to college. At the end of the school year, his mother, a widow, told him he would need to get a job and contribute something to the household, he said. So he left Walungu with friends on the back of a pickup truck, headed for the tin ore mine at Bisie.

Imani did not carry much with him on the journey. Everything fit in a small blue plastic bag: an extra pair of trousers, a notebook with the Unicef logo across its cover, a ballpoint pen and an empty wallet emblazoned with a fake Nike swoosh. At the entrance of the trail, he said, he took his last 200 francs, less than 50 cents, out of the wallet and handed them to the soldier watching the gate.

The walk to the mine was hard. Hills followed hills. Imani’s green plastic sandals struggled to grip the iridescent, mineral-rich mud. The mossy roots of soaring trees criss-crossed the path, creating a ropy web that battered his narrow ankles. He had brought no food and had to beg for leftovers from hungry porters, he said. To cool his parched throat he slurped water directly from the streams that bisect the trail. Many times he thought of turning back, of going home. But the lure of quick cash was strong.

“I didn’t want to give up,” he said. He could not face going home empty-handed.

Finally, after two days of walking, he arrived in Bisie, half-starved and exhausted.

The mine operates in a rigid hierarchy, and Imani struggled to find his place in it.

The highly skilled miners who work in tunnels sometimes 600 feet deep can make good money here, dividing the minerals they find 30-70 with the owner of the tunnel, usually a businessman or a soldier, with the owner getting the lion’s share.

These workers sometimes toil in 48-hour shifts in narrow, airless tunnels, with no safety gear beyond their dim headlamps. Because there is no industrial equipment or electricity here, the tunnels are built by hand and lined with wood. Cave-ins are common, and toxic gases fill the tunnels at times, sickening workers. It is impossible to say how many workers have been injured or killed because there are no authorities here to keep track.

A worker on a productive mine can make $200 on a good shift, but those days are few and far between. Moreover, those kinds of jobs are out of reach for boys like Imani, too young and weak to wield a steel mallet or clear heavy stones.

So Imani joined the other boys who sift earth discarded by bigger, stronger diggers, looking for bits of ore. He recorded the date of his arrival in his notebook and drew a makeshift calendar.

He recorded in his diary that he worked 2.1 hours the day he arrived and made 240 francs, less than 50 cents. That was the last entry.

“I wanted to keep track of what I earn,” Imani said. “But so far I really haven’t earned anything.”

Because he arrived penniless, he had to borrow money to buy food and rent a room. He happened upon Daniel Mubwirano, a friend of the family, who said he had space he could rent Imani. Imani joined three other boys sleeping on the floor of his room, scarcely six feet square.

Mr. Mubwirano, a stocky man with dark, deep-set eyes, was a new arrival, too. He had borrowed $200 from relatives to buy merchandise to sell here. Despite having a leg that is lame from an accident, he carried a sackload of salt, gin, cigarettes, powdered milk and soap through the forest into Bisie, determined to triple his money in a month and return home to his wife and three children.

But nothing had gone according to plan. He did not anticipate the inordinate expense of life here. Flooding in the tunnels meant fewer people had the cash to seek oblivion in his small plastic bottles of gin. Workers asked for credit, which he granted. He waited in vain to be paid.

“What choice do I have but to hope that someday they will pay?” he said.

And Mr. Mubwirano had not expected to have to fork over a good portion of his earnings to militiamen, who collect $20 in illegal taxes from him each week. That is in addition to the taxes he paid along the trail getting here: 10 percent of his merchandise and cash.

So when Imani showed up, he felt no compunction about asking the boy for $10 a month to sleep on a corner of the crowded $20-a-month room he already shared with two other boys. They also paid $10 each.

“We are all just trying to survive,” he said. “Everyone must look after himself.”

Imani said he had not known that Mr. Mubwirano was turning a profit on renting the floor of his squalid room, but he was not surprised. He has nowhere else to live.

Imani borrowed $10 worth of cassava flour from a merchant who also came from Walungu, imploring the man to take pity on him. But more than a month later the man was starting to harass him for payment. Imani keeps making excuses and promises.

“I am full of debt,” he said.

Back in Walungu, Imani and his friends would play soccer after school, slipping off rubber sandals to kick around a ball made of wadded-up plastic bags.

But in Bisie there is no flat surface on which to play soccer, just hills upon hills. To pass the evenings Imani and his friends prowl Bisie’s fetid alleyways. There is no room here for the pleasures of childhood. So the boys amuse themselves spying on prostitutes and sneaking pulls of rot-gut gin.

The worst is Thursday, when the soldiers come. For boys like Imani, the tax is 500 francs, about a dollar. But that is a whole day’s wages. When he does not have the money, he runs into the forest to hide.

“If you don’t pay they will kill you,” he said.

Although Imani wants to leave, he has no money to pay the taxes along the road. And his creditors would send soldiers to arrest him if he tried to escape.

“I can’t go home,” he said.