I am sitting in a Maputo cafe with a South African friend. The metal table rocks away and towards us as we lower a cup, lean on an elbow, take a sip of water from a clouded glass.
We are chatting about, obsessing about, fantacizing about South Africa. We do this very well. And often. It is mid-80's. Perhaps 1984? The end of apartheid is still a dream unfulfilled. He is a member of the ANC. I am not. But our nostalgia for South Africa is woven through our many conversations that range from the personal to the political and back again, often with little distinction between the two. It is getting late. I need to get back to where I am staying at the apartment of my Canadian friend, Judith.
"I need to be getting home", I say, as a waiter comes over to clear our coffee cups. I rise from the rickety chair in the cafe that is showing its wear.
"Define your terms, Comrade", he says.
It is January 2011 and I am still trying to define the term "home".
