But by May (1984) I wrote, “Libreville has now become an expensive, anxiety-producing, alien place.” So, tired of the noisy city where I had no real work to do, I returned to the interior, got off the train, and caught a taxi from the Eurotrag train station into the boisterous riverine town of Ndjolé (a Bantu word beginning with three consonants and pronounced, nn-JO-lay, accent on the middle syllable).
It was on this last, taxi leg of the return trip that it hit me—I was coming home. Ndjolé was home. It had snuck up on me.
Knowing this comforted me, never mind that the narrow, winding road past fringe rainforest, patchy villages, and low hills looked nothing like Seattle. Libreville was for bright lights and distractions. Ndjolé was home. It was where I lived and worked.
Ndjolé Memoir 
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