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MozPeopleMemories of East Africa
I would like to be there. When I was a child a black lady took care of me while my mother, displaced herself from our family, was working in Xai-Xai, a small town at about 250 km north of Lço. Marques, and sometimes I was also there among the crowd, a blond, blue-eyed kid, amazed with their joy. It was also a black lady who taught me to read, write, count, calculate, and being respectful to others. It was her that taught me never say “Haaaann?”, but instead to reply politely ‘How?’. Because otherwise she wisely would hit me with a wooden rule in the hand with her eyes so widely open in a way that used to scare me. But I am grateful to her to deeply inculcating me the first social rules. Indeed, I owe her so much … Her name was Cacilda, Dona Cacilda. She passed away so long ago without having known the joy of the independence of her fatherland (which is mine, too). I wrote about these remembrances in my novel, because, after my mother, she was the second most important woman in my life. I believe that “blacks” do not understand when a “white” tells them: “I am white, but believe me, my heart is black …». That’s true, I miss so much the authenticity of the Mozambican people

 

 

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