Hop on the suburban train with Gaël Faye and you will ride through rain-soaked skies, graffiti-splashed walls, and the bittersweet ache of saudade. “Taxiphone” is the soundtrack of a young exile who swaps the bombs of his African childhood for the grey rooftops of France, only to discover a different kind of battle: racism in the schoolyard, biting cold on the platform, and an endless search for belonging. His small wages disappear in the neighborhood’s taxiphone booths, those tiny lifelines where immigrants queue to call home, chasing familiar voices across an ocean of homesickness.
From baggy Carhartts and untied laces to late-night nightmares about wars he has already escaped, Faye turns each verse into a diary page. He raps about studying hard instead of just rapping, about using music as therapy when no psychologist is around, and about dreaming of return flights that are too expensive—or too dangerous—to take. “Taxiphone” is at once a confession and a rallying cry, reminding us that exile can be both cage and catalyst, and that every scratchy long-distance call carries a whole world of hope, memory, and raw determination.