Missing Home

I am reminiscent of the olden days.

When I would mindlessly hear

Bob Marley tunes approaching from

Uncle Den's stationary car in the garage.

I crave the innocent giggles of fellow cousins

As altogether, we would role play underneath

The mango tree beside the garden of spinach.

We would bathe in the soil until it became dawn.

One would slap her exposed leg followed by an itch,

The blood-suckers would be on duty

Ordering us to head inside our home and shut all windows.

I would patiently pause at the doorstep to hug

The waxy-coloured moon that appeared in the sky.

It's dim orange self would warm up the dark sky and

The people, they named it the Sun of Night,

Alongside it were the twinkles that made up

Patterns that lead believers to a breathing city above.

How I crave for the melodies from distant vivid clubs

That rose at night, drawing nearer until I would acknowledge and fix

The 'Deep House Music' in my head.

It would remind me of :

Places that I have never been to,

Faces that I have never seen before

And moments that I have never lived.

At dusk, the roosters would have summoned the star.

Followed by a morning breeze that resulted

From the cleansing rain that soaked the soil, causing

It to exhale a renewing transparent vapour of

Heavy air.

I would open my eyes to head to the kitchen

Where everyone would be woke and grandma would be serving

A steamy rooibos tea with extra scorns that she had baked

To feed us in the morning before she would leave

To sell them to travellers on the road going - away from - home.