kigali's walls whisper (and other humidity-fueled delusions)
kigali hit different. i stumbled off the bus from uganda and the air immediately clung - 87% humidity, they say, but it feels like someone wrapped you in a wet blanket that's slowly warming up. my shirt's already past the point of no return. just checked the weather app and it's...soup, basically. hope you like that kind of thing.
found a crash pad in kimironko, the landlady warned me about the power cuts but didn't mention the geckos. they're everywhere, little ninjas on the ceiling. whatever, they eat the mosquitoes. the city's a symphony of moto revs, gospel choirs from neon churches, and the constant thud of hammers building something new. someone tagged '157738' on a water tower near the market. coordinates? a phone number? a curse? i asked a painter loading his bike with rollers and he just laughed, said, 'it's just a number, mzungu. like your passport.'
if the hills here start to blur together, rubavu's lake is a few hours of chicken-bus chaos away. but why rush? the street art scene is insane. i followed a trail of paste-ups nearAFTA - this collective called 'inkstain' does these killer stencils of old kings mixed with sci-fi bugs. overheard a graf writer at the kimironko market swearing by the mandazi at the lilac stall, but only if they're fresh out the fryer. [yelp link] says the same thing, but locals know to ask for the ones with extra sugar. someone else told me the hidden bar behind the 'nyabugogo' bus station serves the strongest primus and the saddest karaoke. [tripadvisor link] has one review calling it 'authentic,' which is code for 'no tourists, just problems.'
the reviews you can't trust online are the best ones anyway. i heard from a bartender at 'paradiso' that the real nyama choma (goat skewers) is sold from a guy with a blue umbrella near the stadium, cash only, and he vanishes by 8pm. [local food board link] confirms it, but says to bring your own napkins - he doesn't trust you. the humidity's a killer for brushstrokes; paint runs like tears. i watched a tagger finish a piece in 20 minutes flat, then high-tailed it before the 5:30 downpour. 'you work with the weather here,' he yelled back. 'or it works you.'
my balcony at night is a ceiling of stars and a floor of frogs. the neighbor kid practices piano scales that wobble in the humidity. he's probably 10, already better than i'll ever be. that's the vibe here - everyone's building something while the air tries to melt it all down. i've got '1834583327' scratched into my notebook margin now, a reminder that some things don't need meaning. just exist. like the sweat dripping down my spine. or the rainbow forming over the mosque when the sun finally cuts through. i should go find that blue umbrella guy before he packs up. peace.