Such is the gift I had gifted myself for the third week of January. I knew, for I had experienced it before, that my time in New Zealand is always as full of joy as it is full of blob (I’ll get back to that later).
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My mother first set foot in France when she was fourteen, all skinny, curious and scared, hiding in my grandmother’s skirts. They came from Algeria a few years after the liberation, to find work and hope. My grandmother was tall and funny, and all she wanted was to make an honest living to see that her daughter and her son would have better lives than her own.
They settled in Corsica, where the first generation of immigrants from Maghreb were already making an impression.
