WELCOME BACK

In my memories, the confusion of a profusion of colours, voices, and sounds in supernatural forms constitute my first impression of Cuba. And, the omnipresent heat... The sad, scared little boy I was passed from one adult's hand to another, from the seat of the airplane to the hallway of the airport to the backseat of the taxi driver, and finally to the foot of the stairs of the house of my maternal grandmother. The huge house painted white with strange architecture stood before me like a mountain. All the doors and windows were wide open. The house seemed alive, vibrating to the rhythm of the upbeat music that was beating from within.

"Mrs Perez, your boy is here!" The taxi driver yelled, holding my hand tightly as if I intended to try to run away.

Soon, the short silhouette of a woman emerged from the lair of the house to appear in the daylight outside. She was wearing a colourful skirt and a beige shirt. Barefoot, hands on her hips, black, invasive hair, her skin and her face as dark as ebony, my grandmother approached me slowly as if I was a prey. The woman in front of me had nothing similar with my mother, except for her stature. I had never seen anyone with such dark skin in my small life. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the emotions of the last two days, the surprise of the trip, and the shock of the reality of my forced exile. Tears came to my eyes. 

She seemed to notice my discomfort. So, she came and sat down at the foot of the stairs silently. Then, she handed the taxi driver some money before waving him that he could go. The latter put my backpack and my suitcase at my feet then walked away. My grandmother sat there for a long moment. She watched me without saying anything, beaming with pride, as if the child in front of her had been sculpted by her own hands. Those lips, those perfect teeth were definitely my mother's. Then, she grabbed the plastic pocket still hanging around my neck to remove it with contempt:

"We don't need that anymore!" She began in Spanish before adding with a smile: "I know your name. Borys! And you, do you know mine?"

I thought for a moment, searching in my memory if my mother had ever told me. I hesitated a long time. I was afraid of offending my host. I looked down, overwhelmed with shame of not knowing the answer.

"Alegria! My name's Alegria, but you can call me grandma if you want," she said simply, grabbing my chin between her fingers to lift my head and look me straight in the eye.

Her eyes were both laughing and piercing, and as dark as the skin of her face. My grandmother must have been in her fifties, but she looked thirty.