Africa. Infinite. Elusive. The beginning and the end of everything. Guilt, abandonment, whenever I am forced to leave. My home is already in other lands, on another continent; my soul remains here, tears in two every time, I have to say goodbye, defeated. Far, foreign cultures, car noise, daily effort to survive, intricate paths that move to build today and secure tomorrow.
Africa are my parents, my family, red sunsets, starry nights hanging. It is the perpetuation of life, the eternal return to origins.
As a child, during an evening walk with my father, I asked if I could live my whole life there, where I was born. Where I received so much love every day. My father made a gesture of doubt said, “God will it so."
My children were not born in Africa, have not lived Africa; they are a weak link between tradition and the new, the unknown, our new home. I was unable to give them this one vital necessity, the experiences I was fortunate enough to have as a child.
It has not been possible. They have lived in another world, another reality, incomprehensible to me.
Unaware of this other reality, yesterday I received news that one of my sons died in an attack. He was part of the terrorist cell that descended upon Parliament. This is the terrible reward for so much effort and dedication. My beloved Africa.
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