The world’s a strange place; a bit like a merry-go-round. People migrate from one land mass to another. It’s connected to humanity’s free will and desire to conquer or explore new territory. My ancestors landed on this continent from the Outer Hebrides of Scotland and a few missionaries from Prussia. And the merry-go-round continues to rotate, as sure as the Earth rotates around the sun. I love buying Wilson’s toffees in a trading store and smelling the African-print fabric, the aromas of incense and pungent Durban curries, and the ornate oriental artifacts in the Indian markets. I love the thumping sound of African music emanating from that car parked down the road and the prayer chants wafting across from a mosque. I love the banter of indigenous languages that flows like a song that I can’t quite understand after all these years, yet that sound as familiar to me as a mother’s bedtime lullaby.