My dearest Mother, I write to you from this distant land of France, a place I once dreamed of, to share the journey of your "Seeker of Europe." Do not fear, my heart remains rooted in our traditions, in the spirits of our ancestors and the wisdom of nature. I have not abandoned my true self for any foreign creed, but strive to become someone, while remaining profoundly who I am, bound by the ties of humanism. This letter, full of frankness and detail, lays bare my Parisian adventures, intertwining memories of our past with the stark realities of my present.
Remember when I first arrived in Paris, full of hope, and was taken in by my cousin near the Lilas town hall? We were eleven souls crammed into a tiny studio, a stark introduction to the harshness of life here. The city, which promised so much, soon revealed its true face. From the Lilas, where we were eventually evicted due to unpaid rent, to Colombes, where I found myself living with twelve other compatriots, my quest for knowledge and a better life has been a nomadic one.
My days are a constant dance between the university halls, the quiet solace of Parisian libraries, and the demanding world of odd jobs. I became a valet in a hotel in Issy-les-Moulineaux, a means to afford my university fees. Yet, even there, misfortune found me, falsely accused of theft by a woman who worked alongside me, a woman entangled in the oldest profession. Such are the trials, Mother, that test the spirit of those who chase dreams in this foreign land.
The France I encountered is not always the hospitable land I had imagined. The difficulties of finding a proper place to live, of navigating the sprawling city, of clothing myself adequately, or securing a suitable job, are constant companions. Many young immigrants, swayed by the allure of quick wealth, abandon their studies for factory work, mistakenly believing it will lead them swiftly to the wheel of a fine car. They often miss the true opportunities this land can offer.
Through it all, I have held onto the image of you, Mother, and the sounds of our home. I recall the lullabies you sang to me when I was but six months old, the funny and fantastical tales of our paternal family, and the stories of Epougnou, your late mother's village. I remember the song and dance for Ancestor Anguianga, the provider of fish, when we went fishing at Bouakègni. I long to hear you sing it again upon my return.
My joys here have been rare, my setbacks many. I know this recounting of my life will stir your heart, perhaps even cause you worry. But I must reassure you, Mother, I am coming home soon. I cannot allow myself to become like Jean-Michel, without a home, without papers, without money, without identity – a prisoner of Europe and a deserter of Africa. I am returning for you, and for you alone, to reclaim the melodies and stories that tether me to our land and our people.
