The palm cast a shadow on the white wall of my parents’ bedroom at night—sometimes I can still feel it. The long leaves, stretching out like fingers as the wind contorted their shape; curled and furled like one of the weird sisters clutching onto the all-seeing eye, or splayed in decadent invitation to come hither. Sometimes they looked like knives – sharp, slightly jagged – but not menacing, simply present. Other times they looked like leaves of a palm tree, swaying gently on the visage of a tropical beach, sea lapping gently at the shore with lackadaisical disinterest. Surreptitious, strange and beautiful.
Author & Storyteller: Andrea Zanin
Andrea is a writer, wife, mother and dreamer; also the author of this website. She moved to London in 2006 to earn £s, travel, see bands and buy 24-up Dr Martens—which she did, and then ended up staying. Andrea lives in North London with her husband (also a Saffa) and five children. She loves this grand old city but misses her home and wishes her children could say “lekker” (like a South African) and knew what a “khoki” is.
