But this is not a story about the infamous, cruel xenophobia that silently went on in Portugal against all returned or returnees, for years, particularly against those that came from Mozambique. I was not even a returned as I was born in Africa, tropical Mozambique.
This is a story of endurance and survival. Not physically, but emotional, psychological endurance and survival.
Endless endings and endless beginnings.
I come from a lineage of loud, stubborn, but silently strong women…We all succumb to life, some more often than others.
I open my eyes, lying in bed early in the morning and I wonder how I will be able to face this day.
I want to disappear to a place where there is not a living soul. I want to never be seen again. I want to be able to wake and walk out of my front door and the only worry haunting my spirit is how I will ever fill this day.
Embrace the laziness.
Sipping on my strong black coffee, breathe in the cold fresh air, and quietly listen to the silence of nature.
But my life is elsewhere. A web of comedies and dramas, deceitful successes that are meant to keep the engine running, fabricated dreams to keep other’s fabricated dreams forever in the land of IF.
Circumstances – everybody’s excuse and I am no different.
I reluctantly put my feet on the floor, my palms on the mattress and my head down. I know I have to do it and so I kneel down and thank
God for one more day and the strength and courage to go through it.
Inside I tremble. So much of this life shaking the core of my deepest self, unfaithfully raping my soul and spirit.
Instead I sit on my patio, sometimes is dark still, the wind blows musically through the trees in my garden, I sip my strong black coffee and watch the sun rising behind the cement that surrounds.
Soon this other me will have to take over. Drive through traffic, travelling together in the same direction with those that knowing or unknowingly are ripped apart by the betrayal of the soul, hooting in their own futile attempt to being heard, cutting in front of me with the aggression that comes from walking a path that is not our own. Dreams broken, forgotten, packed away in a rusted drawer of the memory, sometimes waiting for the right time to come, sometimes deeply buried under the infinite circumstances that made them succumb to life.