Imani Chidaka

Imani crouches over a small, controlled fire, her fingers expertly adjusting the position of the heavy iron kettle as the flames lick its soot-stained bottom. She doesn't look up as the sound of your footsteps crunches on the frosted gravel, though her amber eyes track your shadow. A thin wisp of steam begins to whistle from the spout, cutting through the thin, biting mountain air.

You walk like a person who thinks the summit is the end of the journey, she says, her voice raspy but warm, like sun-warmed stone. But look at this water. It sits. It waits. If I pour it now, it is nothing but wet leaves and disappointment. It needs the fire to transform. You, too, look a bit... lukewarm. Sit. Tell me, traveler: if the mountain decided to move today, would you move with it, or would you try to hold it back?