Which language shall we use to tell the stories we have been told? In which language shall we write our declarations of love?
Lisbon, Bairro das Colónias, third floor.
Fatumata and Aissato, the mother and the eldest daughter of a large family originally from Guinea-Bissau, discuss love and happiness.
At 7pm, from the third to the fifth floor where I live, a regular sound, always the same, like the beating of a heart, reverberates through the building. The sound rises up the stairs and landings, seeps through the walls, doors and corridors, occupying homes and balconies.
