I sit outside with my toes in the grass. The sun struggles through the layers of smog and by the time it lands on my cheek, it is but a weak cousin of the African sun that I am used to. I don’t like the air here, it presses down on me, leaves me wondering if we are encapsulated in a dome like goldfish in a bowl.
The wind sighs and carries the nose-tingling odor of burning sewage into our garden. We may live in our manufactured expat fishbowl, but the wind will not stop and deposit its luggage at the gate; it will not be denied entry.
An insect sits on the chair next to me. “Hello Chinese bug,” I greet it quite cordially.
It doesn’t reply.