I'm Colombian and nothing will change that.

Host: The evening was thick with heat — the kind that makes the air shimmer and turns every breath into memory. The plaza in Cartagena pulsed with sound: music rising from an old radio, the distant laughter of street vendors, the smell of arepas, coffee, and the faint salt of the Caribbean drifting through the open-air café where Jack and Jeeny sat.

The sky above them was purple — the kind that only Latin America seems to know — and a slow breeze moved through the hanging lights, making them sway like quiet, golden ghosts.

Host: The city breathed with rhythm — not mechanical rhythm, not Western order, but rhythm that came from heart, from blood, from history.

Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her bare shoulders kissed by the warm air, a small Colombian flag bracelet wrapped around her wrist.

Jeeny: “Shakira once said, ‘I’m Colombian and nothing will change that.’”
She smiled faintly, her eyes catching the flicker of light from a passing motorcycle. “That’s not just pride. That’s truth — the kind that doesn’t apologize.”

Jack: stirring his coffee slowly “You say it like nationality’s destiny.”

Jeeny: “It’s not destiny — it’s root. And roots don’t care about where you move. They live in the soil of your memory.”

Jack: “But roots can trap you too. They can keep you from growing.”

Jeeny: “Not if you understand them. Not if you water them wherever you go.”

Host: The waiter passed by, humming a cumbia tune, and the sound lingered between them like incense. The air shimmered with something intangible — nostalgia, maybe, or the kind of pride that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Jack: “You think Shakira meant it politically? Or personally?”

Jeeny: “Both. You can’t separate them. For Colombians — for Latin people — identity isn’t just a flag. It’s music, food, language, grit, joy. It’s knowing how to dance even when the world burns.”

Jack: smirking slightly “You sound poetic again.”

Jeeny: “I’m not poetic — I’m alive. There’s a difference.”

Host: The street musicians began to play nearby — a small group with guitars and a tambora drum. The rhythm was simple but infectious. It rippled through the air, through the floor, through their bones.

Jeeny tapped her fingers against her glass in time with the beat.

Jack watched her — how she moved, unconsciously, to every rhythm that touched the air.

Jack: “You miss home.”

Jeeny: “I carry home.”

Jack: “That’s not the same thing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not to you. But to me, it’s survival.”

Host: She took a sip of her drink — something bright and citrusy, alive with sugar and heat. Her voice softened, but her conviction did not.

Jeeny: “You know, people always talk about leaving their countries like it’s shedding skin. But you don’t shed where you’re from. It stains your voice, your gestures, even your silence.”

Jack: “You make it sound inescapable.”

Jeeny: “It is. And thank God for that.”

Jack: “I don’t know… I’ve always thought of home as something you build, not something you carry.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when what you build collapses? When war or poverty or time takes it away?”

Jack: “You start over.”

Jeeny: shaking her head gently “No. You remember. You rebuild with the same rhythm that built you in the first place. That’s what Shakira means. You can leave Colombia — but Colombia never leaves you.”

Host: The music swelled — a faster rhythm now, the guitarist grinning as he hit a lively riff. Around them, the air changed: people laughing louder, someone clapping in time, a child dancing near the fountain. The plaza had come alive again, pulsing like a heartbeat rediscovered.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — that certainty of belonging. I’ve never felt like I belonged anywhere. Every place feels temporary.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you’ve never let anywhere claim you.”

Jack: “You make it sound like surrender.”

Jeeny: “It’s not surrender. It’s surrender to love. You can’t belong to a place without loving it — its flaws, its noise, its chaos.”

Jack: “And if it’s broken?”

Jeeny: “Then you love the cracks. They tell the story.”

Host: The firelight from the nearby vendor’s grill flickered across her face — gold and red and alive. Jack looked at her, the way her words glowed when she spoke about her country, her people, her rhythm. It wasn’t patriotism — it was poetry dressed in sunlight and sweat.

Jack: “So you think identity’s permanent? Immutable?”

Jeeny: “Not immutable — but indelible. Like a song you can’t unhear.”

Jack: “And what’s the song of Colombia, then?”

Jeeny: “Joy in the face of everything that should have destroyed it.”

Jack: “That’s not a song — that’s defiance.”

Jeeny: grinning “Same thing.”

Host: A soft wind rustled through the café, lifting the napkins on their table, carrying the scent of grilled corn, rum, and the faint sweetness of the night. Somewhere nearby, the drummers shifted into a new rhythm — deeper, steadier.

Jeeny closed her eyes and listened.

Jeeny: “Do you hear that? That’s what it means to be Colombian. To feel the world through percussion. To let rhythm replace reason. To live in movement, in warmth, in resilience.”

Jack: “You make it sound contagious.”

Jeeny: “It is. That’s why you’re tapping your foot.”

Host: Jack stopped — realizing she was right — and laughed softly, shaking his head.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe roots aren’t chains. Maybe they’re anchors.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The trick is to remember they’re what keep you from floating away.”

Jack: “And you — you’d never leave your roots?”

Jeeny: “I could travel the world, live in New York, London, Mars — but when I laugh, when I dance, when I love — I’m still Colombian. And nothing will change that.”

Host: The music reached its crescendo, and Jeeny stood, barefoot in the warm sand at the edge of the plaza, pulling Jack up by the hand.

He resisted at first — always reluctant to look foolish — but she grinned, tugged again, and he gave in.

They moved — clumsy at first, then freer. The beat found them, threaded through them, until they weren’t dancing to the rhythm but with it.

Host: Around them, Cartagena pulsed like a living heart — vibrant, unashamed, alive with every generation that ever called it home.

As they danced beneath the flickering lights, Jeeny’s laughter broke through the night — bright, fearless, rooted.

And Jack, who had spent his life trying to belong somewhere, realized that maybe belonging wasn’t about geography at all — maybe it was about finding the person, the rhythm, the truth that refused to let you forget who you are.

Host: And as the final beat echoed across the plaza, the truth of Shakira’s words pulsed through the air — not just as a declaration, but as an anthem:
that home isn’t just a place on a map,
but the music inside you that never leaves,
the heartbeat that says — wherever you stand —

“I am. And nothing will change that.”