The smell of smoke brings back memories sometimes in the late hours of the afternoons, when the sun had sunk too low behinds the hills and only the force of it's rays can be seen illuminating strikes into the darkening skies of Port Moresby.
I remember when I was seven years old living at the miles of Lae with my aunt. I remember waking up in the mornings and rushing to the kitchen to see if my aunt had baked my favorite scones. I remember walking to school with my cousins, we never took the bus and if we did, it was a bus driven by someone we knew so we never had to spend a toea even though we insisted.I remember being a carefree child, not worrying about what tommorow would bring and only about what I might eat when I got home.
But most of all, I remember the smell of smoke.
Smoke reminds me of that little makeshift theatre next to the canteen by the main road that we paid K1 to enjoy 3-4 movies every night and if you had no money, you could just pop in during a movie break and watch music videos before the guy collecting the fee would chase you out.
Smoke reminds me of my old grandfather Bobby,who lived at the house behind us, who would wake up at the break of dawn and get his fire started before roasting kaukaus on the open hearth and if you happen to pass by, he would offer you some and brew some good tea in his old kettle, poured straight into a tin cup, the Zia way.
Smoke reminds of that time,my mother woke me up in the middle of the night and ushered me down to the main house where my best friend, who I can no longer remember her name nor face, laid, cold as ice, her eyes starring straight ahead, never to see the beauty of this Earth again.
Smoke. It's always musky smoke that I can't breath properly in, because it makes me nostalgic and I hate it so much.
I hate the smell of smoke.
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