We know mud well.
We live in the mud every day.
Our huts are made of mud.
Mud on the walls and dry leaves as a roof.
We don't need a flood, or the much-hyped arrival of the Mtoto, the baby as they call him in a language that doesn't belong to us.
All it takes is monsoon rains and the houses we live in melt away, leaving only wooden skeletons and a sense of having already lived.

It takes a lot of effort to rebuild them, every time.
But who knows, the trust in Nature that is the same one that makes the sun shine and that, thanks to the rain that melted the hut, gives us the vegetables from the garden and the wheat from the fields, unites us and makes us all work together.
Or perhaps it is that we do not know sudden despair, because in despair we were born and the hope that accompanies us is stronger than sadness.

We grew up and built our security with despair.
Knowing that we must enjoy what is there and not wait for the worst.
Because that will come, anyway.
It is just like mud, which, until it melts, gathers and protects us.