I remember that evening somewhere in Johannesburg, I think. It was for the fifteenth anniversary of Maxhosa Africa. The light fell softly over the carpets that had been laid out before the show. There was in the air an almost domestic warmth, a blend of incense, wool, and silk… I no longer knew whether I had come for work, or simply to find a fragment of the past.

Laduma Ngxokolo was there calm, focused, with that way of looking at things as if he were seeing them for the first time. He spoke of a sophisticated way of wearing the brand, yet in his voice one could hear something else: the need to reconnect with an inheritance, to weave memory, thread by thread.

The models moved slowly, almost out of sync. Their skirts brushed the floor, the fringes drew moving shadows. I recognized certain patterns those geometries he said were inspired by Xhosa culture. They seemed to belong to another world, one I might have known once, without realizing it.

There was that pink jumpsuit, edged with black. An asymmetrical dress, like a riddle. And those long pleated skirts that, as they moved, revealed a hidden color almost a secret. All of it formed a silent language, a sequence of signs speaking of faithfulness, of transmission, of the patience in the gesture.

I stayed long after the show had ended. The lights went out one by one, and on the carpet, a few pearls had fallen from the dresses. I picked one up, absentmindedly. It glimmered faintly in my hand.

I thought that all this the patterns, the colors, the faces would eventually fade away. And yet, something would remain. An impression, perhaps. Like the trace of a scent one recognizes years later, without knowing where it came from.

FM