The death of someone near you, a brother, is unbearable. References are lost, remembrances of the good moments we spent together are popping up unrestless, as when he teached me to drive a car in the sandy roads of Xai-Xai, or the unforgettable afternoon at the small isolated beach at the corner of the Avenue of Maguigoana in Inhambane, with two kids playing with a wood board. Or the girls he dated, as the playboy he was when younger. I met him last Monday at the Mall, and Tuesday morning a phone call informed me that he was dead at 9:00 am with a heart stroke. He used to say, when occasionally we were dining together with my mother and sister, that we were the last survivals of the Great African Adventure, finished with the decolonization. We never adapt to this country, unfortunately, because we were made to move, to explore the world, and just now I knew that he had great troubles but probably had not the courage to tell me. Now, living in Europe, in Portugal, my references are being erased with time, while at the same time a strong appeal is growing inside my soul to return one day to Africa, to Mozambique, to live among the african people I knew when I was born, that took good care of me when my parents were at work, that teached me algebra, grammar and good manners in my youth. Yes, I want to return and stay for a while, living as they live, if necessary in a hut, even being myself a “white”, talking with their accent and wrong grammary, but with souls plentiful of life and love. May you rest in peace, my brother.