Shukran to the place my ancestors built —
and to the Karamats who still protect it.
May I always honour what they gave me.

I’ll be back —
as the prodigal son coming home.

We are the keepers of the Kaap.
And we will get it back.

And as I leave,
I take one of your Belhar blessings with me —
a reminder of strength, unity, and where I come from.
His name is Carter.

And to those living in comfort while my people suffer:
your time will come.
This land does not belong to you.
It never did. It never will.

This city is me.

I come home —
to Athlone and Heideveld,
to Bo-Kaap and Rylands,
to UWC and Manenberg.
We are not fragments of history —
we are still here, and we are bonded.

Cape Town doesn’t just see me.
It reminds me I’ve always belonged.

And it’s never easy to leave.
My chest gets heavy, and the tears always come.
But this isn’t goodbye.

Ancestors of the Khoisan.
Religious exiles.
Carriers of pain, resistance, and pride.
We are still here.

This is where I’m from.
This is who I am.
Not because people look like me —
but because we are the same.

I don’t come here to extract or criticise.
I come to be with my kin.
To sit with memory, with struggle, with joy.
To be — without explanation.

It showed me the true spirit of Ramadan —
how we boeka with love,
how we celebrate Labarang with joy,
how community is something you feel in your chest.

Kaapstad embraces with love, strength, and history.
I’m a descendant of enslaved Cape Malay Muslims.
And I feel them with me —
in every step, every breath, every proud moment

I came back tired, carrying more than I could say.
And this city — this home — lifted me up when I didn’t know how to stand.
It reminded me who I am, even when I’d forgotten for a momen