36 minutes ago
Golden hour in Oía. | Fresh off the plane in Addis Ababa, soon to board another bound for home — midway between the new and newer chapter.
Through that process of one terminal to the next, I’ve been thinking about currents. In our lives, in us — the way we appear to move through people.
On my last night in Cape Town, two Zimbabweans I’d met the day before and I were facing the ocean, digging into the yuck and yum of stewed cow’s feet and pap well past midnight, cracking ourselves up at the often ludicrous names of their fellow countrymen (personal favourite is Nhamoinesu — ‘poverty is with us’).
In two months they’ll be in Hurghada, Egypt, heading the F&B of a resort facing the Red Sea. I’m not sure where I’ll be.
But I think of how I myself have moved. Moved from one continent to another without ever leaving it. This Africa and that Africa. Moved from the Indian Ocean to the briny metallic of the Atlantic.
The more I move, the more steadfast I am in the idea that serendipity is where I find myself most at home. When your and my currents are however briefly intertwined.
Maybe it’s this notion that you are all the people you meet. The way they pass through you. I’m the same I’ve always been since yesterday, but I’m different, too.
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