Honey, I'm home
Ek is tuis
Dit is al vyf dae en ek wil hê tyd moet stil staan, ek wil hê my voete moet in die grond smelt, ek wil vlieg soos die seemeeue in die wind.
Ek is hier gebore en getoë, tussen die yskoue Atlantiese see en die berge.
Hierdie kus, waar ek geleer het om te loop en swem, met Tafelberg wat altyd sterk staan, is die toonbeeld van my hart en my siel.
Dit maak nie saak hoeveel pragtige plekke ek al gereis het nie - enige ander plek het nog maar altyd gevoel soos ‘op pad terug’ hiernatoe.
Na die reuk van die droë Afrika salie en veldblomme, die melodie van my moedertaal, die gevoel van vertroosting om naby my familie te wees.
Trane het die laaste paar dae riviere op my wange gekerf, ek is in ‘n wel van nostalgie en verligting en ‘n droom waaruit ek nooit wil wakker word nie.
Ek het al my hele lewe as ‘n brug tussen kontinente geleef, en hier, nou in hierdie oomblikke, rus ek.
❤️
I am home
It has been five days already and I want time to stand still, I want my feet to melt into the ground, I want to fly suspended like the seagulls in the wind
I was born and raised here, in between the ice cold Atlantic and the mountains.
This shore, where I learnt to walk and to swim, with Table Mountain always standing strong, is the epitome of my heart and my soul.
It doesn’t matter how many beautiful places I’ve traveled — any other place has always felt ‘on the way back’ to here.
To the smell of the African sage and wildflowers, to the melody of my native tongue, the feeling of solace that comes with being close to my family.
Tears have carved rivers on my cheeks the last few days, I am in a well of nostalgia and relief and a dream from which I never want to wake.
I have lived my whole life as a bridge between continents, and here, now in these moments, I rest.
❤️
Home has always smelled like salt and earth—like the wind rushing off the Atlantic, carrying the sharp scent of the sea and the sunbaked aroma of dry African bush. It settles in the lungs, familiar and grounding, stretching along the Western Cape coast, where the land is wild and untamed, and the ocean has no master.
There is no place like Bloubergstrand, it’s what my dreams are made of, it’s where I pine for when my heart hurts. Where the waves of Big Bay wake me up before the morning sun has settled on the water, crashing against the shore as if they have something urgent to say. The view from here is the kind that stays with you—Table Mountain rising in the distance, draped in its tablecloth of mist, the city tucked at its feet, and the horizon stretching far beyond what the eye can hold. Mornings here belong to hearty breakfasts at Ons Huisie, where the scent of fried eggs and boerewors mixes with the sea breeze, and cups of hot rooibos tea warm the hands against the crisp morning air. Childhood tastes return in the form of melktert and koeksisters, sticky sweet and made for nostalgia.
Driving down the Garden Route, the coast unravels in ways both familiar and new—rolling farmlands giving way to thick forests, then to cliffs plunging into the ocean with reckless abandon. Hermanus, where the whales return like clockwork, where the scent of salt lingers heavy in the air, and the sound of their tails slapping the water echoes through the bay. The road bends and turns, leading to Cape Point through Simon's Town, where penguins waddle through the sand as if they own it (because, in truth, they do). The drive is always slow here, not just because of the twists and curves, but because there is too much to take in—the wildness, the blue of the sea so deep it feels like forever, the way the sky opens up wide enough to make you believe in something bigger than yourself.
Further north, Paternoster waits—a fishing village where the sea air mingles with the scent of grilling crayfish, and time seems to stretch. Oysters six ways at a beachside shack, toes in the sand, a glass of crisp white wine catching the last of the afternoon light. The locals will tell you about the sea cats, the invincible ones that roam the shores, forever feral, forever free. The ocean belongs to them, just as it belongs to the boats, the tides, the ghosts of fishermen who still linger in the wind.
And then, there is Stellenbosch—where the past never quite fades, where the ghosts of my parents’ teenage years still wander beneath the avenue-lined trees, their laughter caught somewhere between then and now. It is a town of deep roots, where history clings to the buildings like ivy, and the energy of the university students keeps it forever young. Quaint and iconic, Stellenbosch is nestled between rolling vineyards, golden in the afternoon light, the smell of pressed grapes in the air, a place where time slows just enough to be savored. And nothing—nothing—compares to Lanzerac’s estate French toast, impossibly perfect, the kind of meal that makes you close your eyes for a moment just to make it last.
At the end of the day, when the sky paints itself in every shade of fire and gold, there’s nothing quite like sitting on the top deck, a Havana cider in hand, the air thick with salt and warmth and belonging.
