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The wheels under my suitcase make the loudest noise as I walk through MTN taxi rank at 6am. Crowds of people already awake going about their business. Women walk with their handbags clenched tightly under their arms while cars hoot multiple of times for people who walk casually on the street to move. The strong smell of fried fish fills the air while a man sets up his stand by neatly packing the fish to sell for people to buy throughout the day. Street vendors selling tomatoes packed in pyramids of fives as well plates of carrots, potatoes and green peppers call out to me “sister only R10 for you or let’s negotiate for R5”. I am honestly worried about my safety because I am a walking risk; I am a young woman, wearing a short dress, pushing a suitcase and walking alone. A group of five men walk in front of me and I keep trying to catch up with their fast speed, so it seems I am walking with them. I eventually make it to taxi’s that will get me to Lesotho. We are in a 14-seater minibus which only leaves after 5 hours because we must wait for it to fill up. I am sitting next to a mother who is carrying a baby who won’t stop crying. This is a dreadful ride. The driver plays maskandi music which for the life of me, I cannot stand. He sings alone while the whole taxi sits in silence. I chose the seat right next to the window so I can occasionally stare into space and daydream. I dream about her, my mother. Her soft skin and rich afro. I have never met her because my father left Lesotho with me during the war. I have only seen my mother in pictures. Most people say I have her skin tone and took the shape of her body. I can never understand why Lesotho was never a province in South Africa. I need a whole passport at the border to get in when it is only 3 hours away. Anticipation and fear fill up my stomach. I am finally here. This is my first time in the land of my forefathers. There are only two entrances and exits in Lesotho. None of my family members know I am here, and my father would die at the thought of me travelling to another country alone. I’d remind him that it’s just 3 hours away and should’ve been a province. I arrive in Maputsoe which is a small town in Lesotho. The people here greet and spark conversations with just about anyone they bump into. The kingdom of Lesotho is beautiful. There are high mountains, waterfalls and green fields. I might just move here. Horses are still the mode of transport with men only allowed to ride them. The men here wear blankets, boots and beanies in this scorching sun. I get weird looks from both men and women and I am guessing it’s because of my short skirt because the eyes look straight at my thighs. I am unbothered. I am here on a quest and need to find my mother because my budget only allows me to be here for 3 days. My search begins. I ask around for the Mokoena family which is a popular clan name in Lesotho. I am referred to Leribe which is a town two hours away from Maputsoe. The Mokoena’s apparently occupy most of Leribe. I carry my luggage and squeezed into the 10-seater which seems to have double the required number of people it should have. I arrive in Leribe 2 and half hours later. I have a sense of belonging the minute my feet touch the ground. I am home. All the houses here are spaced 5km from each other so this going to be a journey. I am exhausted. There are no roads here, so my luggage becomes unbearable. I hear a voice behind me, a woman on a horse asks if she can help me. I am in disbelief because woman here don't ride horses and the fact that I didn't expect to find her or be found.