My room is mainly for sleeping. Half of it is empty. In the other half there is a bed, some cupboards of which I only use the surface, a mirror. On the clothelines I have pinned my capulanas. The light at night consists of a naked lightbulb, centered in the ceiling. I sleep underneath a blue mosquito net.

In the mornings I open the curtains and watch the capulanas sway in the breeze. The sunlight reflects off the neighbouring houses and a line of it finds its way into my room. There are no glass panes in the windows. Outside, I can hear the neighbourhood, my family and the ducks going about their day.

I come here when I need any of my stuff or if I want to get ready to go out. I like to put on some music while I try combinations of my 10:ish pieces of clothing and croutch on the bed in front of the mirror while shining the light of my phone into my face to see where to put the mascara. I never quite know how my make up turns out in this light, but it’s OK.

I come here to escape, too. I shut the door and spend time alone, like I am used to. Without being seen or noticed. Without people’s gazes following me wherever I go, without anyone calling me Mulungo, without being touched by strangers or getting asked if I can give some money. Without the overbearing curiosity and love.

I don’t want to complain; I know that in my horrible Portugese I can ask for any help I need, anywhere, and ten people will immediately help me. But sometimes it is so nice to escape from the attention that I am otherwise not used to. To become a hidden nobody while I read a book, scroll on the phone or listen to music. Not the exotic White One who wanders the streets in the same or different manner as any other.

Some peace between the grey, concrete walls and floor, in the dim lighting. A space for rest. A space for my lungs to breathe. I love this little room of mine.

…

(This story told in pictures.)