Amy Adoyzie

It was early afternoon, and nice to be outside during a time of day when the sun still hung above trees and streamed rays through branches casting soft shadows on dusty roads. I left work early because the day before I had stayed until 10:30PM proctoring an exam and needed to not in that building anymore. As I approached the end of the school’s driveway, one of the security guards asked if I was returning to my residence and we waited together for an empty rickshaw together.
“Painch liash?” He asked, referring to the residential neighborhood the teachers live in.
“Heh,” I replied. Bangla for yep.
It was silent for a few moments until he said, his accent so thick I barely made out the English words, “Love is heaven. Heaven is love. Monek?” He smiled. Monek means meaning.
“Uh…” I formed a heart with my fingers and placed it over the left side of my chest and said, “Love is,” pointed to the sky and continued, “heaven.” I did the same in reverse to translate “Heaven is love.”
He nodded slightly.
“You know heaven?” I poked my finger upward, as if each stab at the air would emphasize the word. Then I mimed having my throat cut and made a strained sound like movie actors make when they die, as if to say, You know, heaven is where you go after you get your throat slit.
He nodded more confidently. This teaching gig never ends.