This is based on a piece that I wrote nearly three years ago. It is an African memory.
I am a brooding cargo transported from a past that had privilege based on the colour of my skin.
Is it possible to reject the context of a childhood and yet, somehow, still inexplicably have the sweetest of memories of a time that seemed to last forever?
I think it is.
When I look back – probably too often – I am pulled and punched by a land and a time that, for me, has a wonderment and a deep and lasting pain.
I grapple with the paradox.
The time that I cast my mind to is most probably rose-tinted: I want to say out loud that the land can never be – for it has been there for eons and its beauty is beyond the saying of these words; millions of eyes have surveyed it; they, too, have been transported of an evening by the sight of the sun falling into a land with a night sky that is now every inch my cargo.