“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.”
– Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It and Other Stories
I keep staring at the rivers on the wall; the rivers are on my map you see.
The cataracts of the Congo sit atop my head; the burden of the Orange is in my veins.
This of course does not explain the behavior of the Nile at its source -
Where Colonel Charles Gordon may be sleeping.
At night I break off down the Niger, past the mangrove swamps
And the mahogany trees lining the banks, with blank treaty forms in hand.
Zambezi, I know that name best; I have seen her Victoria Falls.
Senegal, I don’t even know your Upper or your Lower.
I am not here, however, for lakes: Albert, Kivu, Tanganyika, Nyasa, or the like.
Instead, I scan the Sahara for the lost rivers of Africa.
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