On travelling alone
On my last night in “the colony” before journeying to Brazil, a rare thunderstorm strikes the Western Cape.
The thunder applauds my departure as I fly across the Atlantic. I was blissfully unaware at the time, fidgeting in my window seat with excitement and discomfort, that the feeling of being indigenous is relative.
A layover in Luanda gives me time to catch a glimpse of the full moon and transition from the Portuguese I grew up speaking in Maputo to a new accent — a new iteration.
I land in São Paulo as dawn is breaking. A Canadian man I meet in the immigration line treats me to a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich. I change currencies, buy a SIM card and touch base with my Queen Mother and sister.
Upon stepping out of the airport, I begin to understand that wealth should be measured by the quality of air you breathe. The last time I saw this much vivid green was at home in Lusaka, December 2016.
This is my first time being a tourist on a new continent. Despite my hybrid upbringing in the southern region of Africa, I have yet to travel in a way where visiting museums, parks and cathedrals is on the agenda.
I will be in São Paulo for eight days, hosted by my friend Bridget O’Brien and her family in a lush green suburb of the city. I am in awe of the jungle in their backyard, the birds that wake me up each morning with a chaotic symphony.
What has to have been the most memorable party (so far) happened on my first Sunday in São Paulo.
Take one-part samba, shake with two parts local black-owned businesses, sprinkle with curls and coils of all dimensions, throw in some live graffiti by black womxn artists who