As part of 041Online’s partnership with Fineprint to spotlight emerging young voices, this piece reflects on finding home and peace in unexpected places.
By: Litakazi Matikinca
When I first moved to Gqeberha, everything felt out of place. Everything, except the beach. You know how some places just get you without saying a word? That’s what the beach became for me. Not because anything dramatic happened there, but because it let me breathe.
Moving to a new city is a weird mix of excitement and fear. You’ve got your CV in one hand and your hope in the other, walking into buildings that barely look up when you walk through the door. You’re trying to prove yourself, find a job, make new friends, figure out taxi routes, remember street names, and somehow still smile like you’re not overwhelmed.
That’s where the beach saved me.
It didn’t care about any of that. The ocean didn’t ask me what I did for a living. The waves didn’t care how many rejection emails I’d received that week. It just existed, loud, wide, and always moving. And somehow, sitting there on the sand made me feel like I could keep moving too.
The beach became my go-to place. When I needed to cry. When I needed to laugh at nothing. When I just wanted to sit still without anyone asking me what my “five-year plan” was.
There’s something magical about watching a group of kids chase each other across the sand while a teenager practices TikTok dances in the background. On one side, someone’s praying. On the other, someone’s grilling chicken from the boot of their car. And in the middle? Me, figuring out who I’m becoming.
That’s the thing about Gqeberha, it’s not flashy, but it’s real. And the beach reflects that. People show up as they are: moms with toddlers, couples on dates, loners like me with headphones and a notebook. And no one’s trying to impress anyone. There’s comfort in that.
I’ve seen so many small moments there that made me feel connected to others without even speaking. A guy helping an old lady across the sand. A stranger offering someone a bottle of water. A kid handing out seashells like they’re gold.
It reminded me that even though I wasn’t born here, I wasn’t alone. We’re all figuring things out. We’re all trying. We’re all standing at the edge of the city, looking out at something bigger than ourselves, wondering what comes next.
And honestly? That’s comforting.
Some people go to therapy. I go to the beach. Same thing, just cheaper.
There were times I’d walk there early in the morning before the city got loud. The air would still have that salty chill, and the only sounds were birds, waves, and my own thoughts. That silence? It gave me clarity. It reminded me that I didn’t have to have it all together to keep going.
So yes, I came to Gqeberha for opportunity. But I stayed because somewhere along the way, I found peace in a place that didn’t know me but still welcomed me.
Growing up doesn’t always happen in your childhood home. Sometimes it happens at the edge of a city, staring at the sea, realising that you’re still becoming. Still growing. Still dreaming. And that’s okay.
And for anyone who’s ever sat on the beach feeling like they don’t have all the answers, I see you. You’re not alone. The city may not always say it out loud, but it holds space for you too.
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