DREAMING OF A BROKEN CACTUS

Cabo Verde, September 2021

First thing I do when I get off the plane is get a deodorant, a brandless worn out tube. I uncap it and my grandmother pops up. That’s her smell. A trip within the trip. First off. Then cars passing by with hooters like clown horns. The same dog everywhere. They put a leash on it and make it theirs for the day. Then they unleash it. I meet Gregoria Evora, her sons live in France, Angola and Portugal. She has four papaya trees as big as her long arms can stretch. She hugs someone invisible to show me. Someone very big. The fishermen arrive at port. Dogs, cats and old ladies stroll down the village following the ammonia smell. A sweet and hungry flock. And the mountains, wrinkled like discarded love letters. And the wind, pushing clouds that run like nobody’s business. In a corner, a dog trembles slightly, dreaming of a broken cactus.