I have a home. I have a roof above my head and walls around with doors I carefully keep locked, I am safe. Humble and shy, but who am I? There is food in the fridge, a bed to lie in and covers to keep me warm, I am comfortable. In a foreign land, a city of roaming strangers, the picture of good life and abundance, I have an address. It leads to someone else’s house. Everywhere I hear a language I don’t always understand and still struggle to speak, do I belong?

I had a home. I had a roof above my head and walls around me with doors that were carefully kept locked, I was lonely. Quiet and docile, I was scared. There was food in the fridge, a bed to lie in and covers to keep me warm, I couldn’t complain. In a known country, a city of scruffy streets, weary roads and graceless buildings. Familiar faces, the look and feel of hard life and scarcity. I had a room right in my mother’s house, but did I belong?

I had a home. I had a roof above my head and walls around me with doors that were kept wide open, I was free. Arrogant and bold, I was me! There wasn’t always food in the fridge, when there was a fridge anyway. A bed or grass mat to lie in and a fan to keep me cool –it was enough. In a country that has birthed me, a city of childhood memories, the smell of grilled corn and burning coal. I had a home in my grandmother’s heart and I did belong.

I want a home but it’s nowhere to be found. A room full of light, my home has no fences, no barriers, and it’s my job to build it. No roof, no walls, no locks, my home has two arms and a beating heart, and it’s my job to seek it.


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