I left Moundou last Wednesday. It was dark when my telephone alarm woke me up. After I showered I threw my PJs into my stuffed backpack and sat on my bed. The walls of my room were cleared of the letters I had hung there, the closet was empty, the floor was clean of books and nail clippings. It felt strangely sad and flat.

Pastor Sem picked me up and we took the road, the only paved road in Moundou, to N’djamena. I have left places before. They were places as far away as Edinburgh and Cuzco but I always knew that I would probably return someday. When I left Moundou, though, I felt like I might never return. It’s scary to say goodbye to someplace forever. As we passed Gibson’s Trade Fair Centre, the night market—barren in the morning, and the long lines of villagers walking into town to sell bananas, mats, and mangos, it seemed like something important but intangible was fading. Slowly gone like the sky in a sandstorm.

Now I’m in N’djamena waiting for the 20th and the plane back home. Goodbye Moundou. Goodnight Tchad.