After being away for some time, facing Africa again calmed me down. Its people, with their merciful yet powerful ultimatums toward the white man, extended a kind of friendship I could not resist.
The way those kids accepted me made me feel like I was their little son. They protected me like a mother. The country was no more unknown to me, thanks to their precious souls.
Their storms were a friendly enemy. It was calling you to death very calmly. You could almost let yourself into it. Yet, they forced me to protect myself against my untrained instincts.
The vitality you rarely encounter elsewhere in the world is here, alive in every corner: in the sea, in the desert, in the smallest village. While the rest of the world drifts in other directions, Africa’s storms remain raw, natural, introducing you once again to the essence of the world with all the wildness of nature.
The children here are different. The sky feels wider, yet closer. Raindrops are larger, and somehow warmer. Illness is harsher, but healing comes easier.
Chaos rules the streets, yes, but the minds remain calm. The oceans are still ruled by the moon, and that remains deeply mystical.
Here, a walk does not end in narrow alleys but in wide valleys. And at the end of the day, to understand Africa requires the ability to stand utterly alone in the middle of it.
