When I think of Morocco, I imagine intrigue, magic, and colors. Not just colors you see, but colors you
feel.The deep blue streets of Chefchaouen that looks like someone dipped a whole city into the night sky. The burnt-orange walls of Marrakech glowing under the sun like they were made from clay and stories.
The patterned tiles that look like geometry decided to become art. When I think of Morocco, I do not think small. I think textured. Layered. Cinematic.
I imagine myself walking through a spice market pretending not to know the difference between cumin and coriander, while secretly just inhaling everything dramatically like I am in a film.
I imagine riads. Those quiet courtyards with fountains in the middle, where time slows down, and even your thoughts speak softly. I imagine the Sahara at sunset. Silence so wide it stretches your chest open.
It feels magical, almost mystical. And maybe that is the thing. Morocco, to me, feels like a place that holds both noise and quiet in the same breath.
The Beauty That Pulls.
There is something about North African architecture that makes me pause. The arches. the lanterns. The mosaic tiles that looks like someone prayed with patience while placing each piece.
The fabrics. The patterns. The craftsmanship.
Even the food feels theatrical. Tagines simmering slowly, mint tea poured from high above glasses like it is a performance.
There is richness there. Not loud richness, but deep richness. It is the kind of place that makes you wear linen, write poetry, and pretend you are mysterious. And honestly? I love that.
BUT I am not naïve. I have heard stories. Stories about how Black travelers, especially Nigerians, are sometimes treated. stories about prejudice. About discomfort. About being unwelcome in spaces that look beautiful in photographs.
And I would be lying if I said those stories do not make me pause. Because wonder is beautiful, but awareness is wisdom.
Travel, especially as a Black woman, sometimes comes with an extra layer of research. You do not just look at flight prices; you look at experiences. You read reviews carefully. You listen to stories from people who look like you.
You ask questions: Will I be welcomed? Will I be safe? Will my accent change how I am treated?
These are not dramatic questions; they are realistic ones.
Beauty & Caution.
Here is what I am learning: A place can be breathtaking and imperfect at the same time. Culture can be layered, beautiful in art, complicated in history, warm in some places, difficult in others.
That does not cancel the beauty; it just adds context. If I ever go to Morocco, I will not go blindly. I will go informed. I will go aware. I will go with discernment.
But I will also go with wonder. Because I refuse to let fear steal my curiosity.
Right now, Morocco lives in my imagination. It is the sound of distant prayers echoing from rooftops. It is the scent of spices I cannot pronounce. It is tiled floors and patterned shadows. It is golden light embracing blue walls.
Maybe one day I will walk those streets in real life. Maybe I will stand in the desert and laugh at how small I feel under that much sky.
And maybe, just maybe, the real Morocco will be different from the one in my mind. But that is the beauty of travel, isn't it?
We carry a place in imagination first, then we meet it as it truly is.
Until then, Morocco remains a dream wrapped in terracotta and blue. A place I hold both with curiosity and caution. And honestly, that tension makes it even more interesting.💕
with love,
Margaret (Kaego)
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