I have never really lived in any other country other than South Africa. Yet I feel distinctly alien to it.
It’s been four months now since I have been back from a six-month-working holiday in the West African city of Dakar, in Senegal the land of the Lion and the Baobab.
And still I cannot make sense of this, my home, South Africa.
What happened to me? To them. To us. Am I once again lost in my country’s constant transitions.
A constant foreigner?
In the desert-sands of my Senegal, there lay somewhere beneath my despair a hope…
That there is a place called home. For me.
I thought I found it. One day. On the 25 of December between the Atlantic Ocean, and the River Senegal.
On a strip of Sand.
For a moment, I was at peace and swam among sea creatures and crabs.
This morning as I joined thousands upon thousands of the country’s working massive, labourers, maids, garden boys, mamas, gogos, aunties, uncles, tellers, cleaners, students, struggling artists, myself. I wondered how one could find peace in a place where each morning one is greeted with headlines such as this one:
Child Hacked with Axe.
and still remain.