The hotness of the summer sun is nothing compared to that of your village. That village you were born and bred, the village that imposed a darker shade of black on your tender skin. In the face of a supposed heatwave, you feel the cool breeze of winter engulf you in it's warmest embrace. You are almost tempted to put on your grey coloured, hand woven, knee length cardigan. It's the same cardigan your "Uncle America" gifted you on your first trip abroad. "When those people are feeling cold, it means you are supposed to feel cold. Wear this cardigan and khaki shorts" His words ring through your ears like an unstoppable alarm clock, reminding you that you must never wear your grey coloured, hand woven, knee length cardigan without your miserably faded khaki shorts. But you do not wear your cardigan at all, you reprimand your skin for getting fooled by the weather. "When they are hot, I must be hot" you mutter under your breathe, praying silently for those little dots, the ones they call "Goosebumps", to scramble off your arms. You study the women on the streets through your tinted bedroom window, mimicking their gestures and taking note of their outfits. "Singlets" you mutter, because that is all you can see. They wear singlets. But you cannot be like them, because your Papa would strangle you if he hears you wear such skimpy clothing. This very thought makes you realise how much you hate your Papa, and then you run upstairs to wear a singlet because it's your only way of exerting revenge on that one man responsible for the scar above your right eye, and the ones beneath your left breast. You turn on your radio, because it makes you happy. Yes, it makes you happy because Mrs Hamilton has a radio too. Mrs Hamilton is the richest woman on your street, with a coffee machine and a welcome mat at her front porch as evidence of her extreme wealth. "It's another day in the heatwave" your favourite reporter says. The one with a high pitched voice, the one you assume is your mother. You have never met her, and so you have chosen to believe your mother is the successful newscaster with a high pitched voice.Your mother's announcement has suddenly made your goosebumps to vanish. She knows best. You know she knows best. You have discovered the presence of the heatwave, and you cannot resist the urge to dive into the public pool across the mainland. But you love ice-cream, and you cannot afford the ones sold at the side of the public pool, so you soak your feet in a bucket of chilled water and eat the last slice of Rainbow's cake instead. You convince yourself that this is much better than visiting the public pool . But it is not. You do this every year, every summer, during every heatwave, and so you know,like everyone else does, that placing your feet in a bucket of water and eating an old slice of cake would never be better than visiting the public pool, not when Robbin James is the lifeguard. You heard from the teenage girls you were once hired to work for, that Robbin James is the "Man of the summer". You don't find him attractive, of course. You know his nose is a bit too pointed, and his eyes a bit too sunken. You notice the weirdness in his smile and the sluggishness in his strides. You notice the wrinkles above his thick brows, not to mention the redness of his little eyes. But these people, they like him. They say he has the body of a model, they say he works in an organisation that helps to elevate poor people like you. And so you gloat over him too, because you want to be just like them. You are just like them. You think about your father, the one whose existence you have decided to erase from your memory. Forgetting him is your most effective therapy, you know this, but the scars that lie lazily across your skin rebel against you. Each day they remind you that he is alive and strong. Each day they remind you of your weakness in the face of a drunken father and a missing mother. You think about your siblings, the ones whose names you have chosen to forget. "I am better." You whisper to yourself, "I am elsewhere. I am caught up in the heatwave". Uncle America says anyone back in your village would kill to live the life you have led in the last three years as a successful house nanny. You have chosen never to call yourself a housegirl. They know this is what you do,they are happy for you, but you are a nanny. A nanny who has stayed long enough to experience the heatwave. In more ways than one, the heatwave has offered you a genuine sense of satisfaction. You push away the mere thought of visiting the public pool, because you are satisfied. You would no longer eat the last slice of Rainbow's cake, of any cake. You would no longer force yourself to drool over the man of the summer, because within yourself you agree that the sixty year old lifeguard, the one who had once given you CPR, is much more handsome than Robbin James. You would no longer wear your grey coloured, hand woven, knee length cardigan with your faded khaki shorts, because you are a satisfied nanny. A successful nanny. You would even dare to call yourself a home manager. You would no longer bother about your relatives at home, because you know, although she doesn't, that your mother is the newscaster with a high pitched voice, the one who said, "It's another day in the heatwave". The one who is always right. You would set out to find her, not now of course, but sometime in the future, on a day when the heatwave is at it's peak. You would remind her of your father, her husband, the one who left her for another woman. Finally, you would confess to her, because you just have to, that you have not learned to feel hot during the heatwave.