The longer I spend at home, the more I reminisce about the four-ish months I spent on the Eastern Coast of the continent. A time when I would struggle for stories to write home about; now I realize that just about everything, however commonplace in my Tanzanian routine, was a story worth telling. I never wrote about the people – like Maria, the housekeeper with five children and a grandchild, Enoki, the carpenter nicknamed “the captain” because of his tendencies to drown himself in the bottle, or Mario, the ex-militia overnight guard who washed the dishes and did the ironing (when he wasn’t carrying around his bow and quiver of arrows). I never wrote about the bats that awoke at everyday at dusk and took over the skies – peppering the landscape and ridding the heavens of high-flying insects. I forgot to mention my daily run-ins with lizards, mice, and cockroaches, because the shock of sharing your home with these tiny refugees wore off before I thought to start writing. My journalism professor would be appalled by the moments I let slip through my fingers. Hopefully, it’s not too late.