We do it differently in this dark continent. Not just once a year a string of spurious verses ensconced in a bouquet shaped like Chinese house of dreams. My mother is more demanding - an obeisance at each sunrise, like a devotee throwing a handful of yellow rice to the birds. Holding a candelabrum before an idol, Just once a year Is desecrating it. Whenever I see a caterpillar slouching towards a pansy's eye, or hear ancestral voices in a wind's howl, I invoke my deity - sometimes twice a day.