RUN. RUN. When we ran in Monrovia in among the shacks, trampling the earth and the sand, dodging dilapidated huts, I would brush against the zinc ceilings that were caving in. Sometimes I would stop and a bunch of kids
The Sun can be Yellow The curious life of Carlos Battaglini in Liberia
These are the hardest days. Those days when you sit in front of the computer and you don’t know what to write about. You can see it, too. A blank, white screen boasting only a title, that only says “test”.
SOMETIMES IT HAPPENS. You are walking in the middle of a Liberian road, heading in some direction and a question falls on your head in the form of a guillotine and covered in scales that must be silver with grey
CAN I SAY SOMETHING? Imagine an airport. Can you think of an airport and feel what it is? An airport, a kaleidoscopic space, a mental multiplication, a neurological trampoline. And meanwhile, I listen to her. And whilst I am checking
Sometimes we think ahead and this time, before going to the best beach in Buchanan, we head to the “restaurant” owned by the Lebanese man so he can prepare us some food for later, this way we won’t have to
FEAR IN BLACK AND WHITE. Some people have started leaving the bar, forming a scary, irregular line. “This bar is mine and I want to tell you loud and clear that over there by the bar, there are some guys
VICTOR, ANESA AND I TAKE UP THE CENTRE OF THE ROOM AT BLACK AND WHITE FORMING A TRIANGLE. We start dancing with energy. Here, in Buchanan, in Black and White you have to crouch to dance, almost kneel down and