Katanga’s soil bleeds red. From the air, its veins stretch across the Congolese plateau like an ancient circulatory system, pulsing with copper, the metal of civilization itself. I have followed those veins for miles, each step revealing a deeper rhythm of the earth’s metallic song.
Copper is the bridge between nature and invention. It carries our words through wires, our heat through pipes, our hearts through science. Yet in Katanga, it is also memory, the echo of colonial greed, the sweat of miners whose stories often go untold.
When polished, copper mirrors our faces. But when studied, it reflects our history, both beautiful and burdened.