– Memoirs of Africa –
I’m from a family of explorers.
It’s been like that for centuries. My great grandmother was born in the hot sun of Africa in a place with a different name now than what was back then, where the troubles of the world didn’t reach besides a note on the local newspaper.
I’ve never been to Africa, and I am today, the first generation of my family to have never explored the deep savannahs, travelled with old tribes and speak their native languages.
I’ve grown listening to stories on Sundays, around the family table, a costume that endured no matter the place. And from time to time I can close my eyes and travel through memories stolen from a scene. I can feel the sun burn my face and the soft touch of a white linen dress, while Fred Astaire echoed through the rooms reaching the porch and fade into the vast barren land.
How simpler life must have been. Those long balmy nights over cigarettes and port wine, surrounded by books, records and old letters recited every night in a seemingly social life.
I often find myself drifting through memories of that time, like a part of me wants to belong to a time and place not my own. I go through old photographs and find evanesce notations on the back, unravelling stories I do not yet comprehend. Clippings left inside a worn out book, forgotten love letters and trifles of an unpretentious way of life. Narratives of Africa, my Africa. In a black and white canvas, like stories within stories.
I look at my watch, hours gone by and outside the dim light sets in, like it does everyday. An ocean apart, a century in between.
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