1.
i wrote my name in the sands of madagascar.
my dad held my hand and helped me trace it in two other languages
and i grinned wide.
the sea caressed the shore but never reached my name.
she was protected from the rolling waves and the salty foam,
she was resilient.
and ten years later, when i stand brave at the same shore, my mother’s homeland,
i remember resilience.
i listen to the songs of the wild, i’ve learned to
dance to her melodies and bask in her music.
i grin wide again.
on the coasts of tamatave, i find myself.
and finally, suddenly, altogether,
i feel at peace.
2.
on 17th December, i stepped out of the Antananarivo Airport
and uttered the same words i did the last time i was there,
“i can smell madagascar.”
as if it was more tangible than a rare dream,
as if i lived there for years on end and was returning finally,
as if it was a Marc Jacobs perfume and not a country.
still,
i could smell the familiar coal, the nostalgic firewood, the distinct fragrance of mud after rain.
the crickets called my name and the wind hugged me in a way i’d forgotten was possible.
madagascar was more than just a country,
it was a feeling
it engulfed me.
3.
tamatave was the same as before. six years and nothing had changed.
the supermarkets, the school, the roads,
the same sand found its way into every nook and cranny
of the town.
it stuck to our shoes, it troubled our home, it refused to leave us how much ever we shook it away.
“you can try to run away from this sea, this sand, this feeling,” it seemed to say,
“but madagascar will never leave you.”
my tall sandcastle stood in front of me,
proud and resilient,
i wrote my name in the sand again- claiming it was mine:
i knew that the moment i walked away, the sea would
claim it for its own,
and that days later the sand might leave my fingernails,
might not dance in my socks,
but for me, always- it would be mine.
4.
early the next morning, i joined an online Zoom meeting,
sitting on the same spot where i wrote essays about ‘My Day at the Beach’ as a kid,
hoping the african air would channel some creativity-
“you’re in madagascar? where is that?”
“oh, it’s in-”
“the USA right? i knew it sounded familiar…”
“no… it’s a small island south of Africa. it’s beautiful-”
it probably isn’t basic geography to know this but
i was taken aback.
there are people who don’t know this country,
who don’t know about lemurs and eternal greenery and roads so bumpy you can’t feel yourself,
who are oblivious to this beautiful beautiful feeling.
oblivious to this beautiful beautiful feeling.
5.
a few days later, we found ourselves on a lovely beach in foulepoint.
a point of hope, full of goodness.
light glistened off the waves, emerald leaves brushed my face, the salty air tasted of sweet serenity.
the water was mesmerising-
the more you stare at it, the more real it seems to become, the more faint life is, the more prominent nature is.
the ocean lapping at my toes tells me that
it will wash away my worries. i will be reborn, it promises me,
in its hallowed element,
that i will be safe.
6.
just as we were ten years ago, the evening found us sitting uncomfortably in a canoe, heading out to the
grey sea
to look for corals and interesting things the boatman can find.
he tucks the faded ariary note and we are off to the
grey sea
before we finish saying our prayers.
he rows and we ride,
grateful that we reside in a lagoon where we are
sheltered from the roaring waves of the indian ocean
but not as grateful to not be fearful.
with every few meters we went forward,
we bit our lips a little harder,
clutched the sides of the canoe tighter lest we topple off-
praying the lightning doesn’t reach us because we’re so close we can almost touch it.
the boatman carries on- such is the
spirit of madagascar,
unstirred by anomalies, one with nature-
he seems determined to show us the wonders of the sea while the relentless rain pelts us
and leaves us defenceless.
till we reach the shore which seems to be miles away,
we accept that we are one with water.
we remember the coast’s promise that it will always remain ours.
7.
the days go by and it’s unsettling when you stay in a country that speaks a language you can barely comprehend.
all i know to understand is the language of the trees, of the wind, of the sea,
conjugations and foreign words are beyond me.
important discussions take place and i
sit with my legs stretched out-
ready to escape. language can wait, nature cannot.
“je ne parle pas français,”
i can hear the sea laughing at me but the sand
agreeing with me because
some experiences transcend words.
some feelings elude the need for language.
8.
and soon enough,
the time has come for us to leave,
with no clear idea of when we will return just as it was
six years ago.
we leave with heavy hearts, knowing that somewhere we belong to the coasts of madagascar,
that when we close our eyes we will still remember the sound of the sea,
it will never really leave us.
this feeling, will never really leave us.
and later, when our flight takes off and i see the magic of the country
i know that it is a secret i’ll carry with myself.
it is a whole new world, impossible to share, to fully express in words. it is a feeling after all.
i close my eyes and i hear whispers of a beautiful story,
it speaks to my heart,
and i know it is that resilient voice of madagascar,
that beautiful beautiful feeling.
Written by
Milomi on 31.12.23 and 01.01.24
Milomi's world 