H.O.M.E.
Home.
Home. Home. Home. Home.
Home.
Maybe if I say it slowly,
repetitively…
until it’s embedded in my thoughts, my skin,
my hair—
in the air I breathe, the air I cling to for life—
maybe then I’ll know where I belong—where I fit in—
maybe then I will know where home is.
Maybe if I read books,
scan the letters one by one
until they become a recognizable word,
a comprehensible thought,
a descriptive, illustrative image:
the warm sun basking on my skin,
drying the crusty walls of the mud hut that my father built
for my mother, for my sisters,
for my brother,
for me—
maybe then I’ll know where I belong—where I fit in.
Maybe then I will not have to search books
scanning words,
comprehending thoughts,
visualizing images—
maybe then I would not feel like a gust of wind passing through
without a place to call my own,
shifting…
turning…
blowing…
moving…
wherever Mother Nature pleases.
Blowing from border to border,
boundless…
searching…
seeking…
wanting…
Maybe then these words,
these thoughts,
these images
can transform,
alter
and distort
into boundless feelings that transport me back to Africa.
Back to the motherland.
Back to South Sudan…
…But when I did go home—well,
what I believed to be home—
back to Africa,
the motherland,
Egypt—
I felt the sun basking on my skin but it was not warm and inviting,
but burning, as if it wanted to burn me to crisps.
To turn and transform my beautiful dark brown skin
into nothing but black, lifeless ash.
Home was not warm and inviting.
The motherland did not want me.
H . O . M . E