“It’s a funny thing coming home. Nothing changes. Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. You realize what’s changed, is you.”
=> Eric Roth, The curious Case of Benjamin Button screenplay
My mom and sisters have always been that trademark ingredient of home. The three of them mix into a sterling cocktail; beautiful, according to the general sentiments of our guests and neighbors. This, capped with their seemingly innate convivial character and uncontrived extending of palpable goodwill makes a visitor feel all warm inside when they visit us, as if they just received a million-dollar hug. This is what makes me miss home and poke this qwerty on my keyboard as such.
And then what we have to offer in terms of natural splendor: the pets, fruit trees, goat pens, chicken yard, kennels, hatches and my love; the fish pond, all arraigned in the compound in a welcoming eye-feasting display that will actually guarantee your sight’s ward-off from Anna’s fleshy thighs and chest raisins. Anna is not the house help. Nope, she’s our tenant. We edged her at the far end of the farm where she’s set shop in a two-roomed setting. Yet, she’s part of home.
There’s a small brat too. A boy who’s got so much energy that he obviously siphoned out of his parents like a midget petroleum thief. Having just started a half-day school, he spends most of his hours at the yard. The yard, that initially served as breeding grounds for verbal blurts on the soaring cost of living and insecurity; have now acquired more acceptable roles as the square for over-indulgence in fruitless political chatter by dad’s neighbor friends.
All these, of course, mum’s work. It all boils down to the basics. A woman is a home-maker.
Then there’s my 5 by 5. It’s not my room. It’s my house :D. Actually, it’s just a room. That’s where I’d mostly wind up after a frenetic day outdoors, maybe trying to make ends meet. But my ends are like the latitudes, they never meet :(. But apart from the slimy bathroom walls of my quarters ( i promise I’ll do something), I love me holed up and chained to the old dusty piece of sofa in my cage. That’s where I cool my heels in the evenings while passing my small index finger silently through between each one of my toes, alternating these with index-finger visits to my nostrils, trying to determine which one is contributing to the aroma of cooked feet that always fills my room after spending a whole day in the hot African sun looking for purpose :D.
Animals? With much appreciation to the spiders and random stray-in newts and praying mantis that have made me a hero to the feminines in that small world, I’m doing this paragraph first for my dog. Yeah, I miss that old meat-mincer who always greets me in the mornings when I’m home with a good-morning yawn that says there’s some ‘isht’ on the veranda. Then, I come from that part of the world where I have to mention our hens that look fleshy, not only to the boys in the hood (that’s me and my two carnivorous bros who always have to answer a case of who slaughtered the chicken) but also to the chief’s cocks who make sure they exercise their curvy thighs by engaging them in what seems like prey-predator skills that come in handy for the x-mas chases that always ensue. Determined to strike gold in the hearts of our layers, these cocks always stream in through the fence we share with the chief, making them scamper all over the compound like stray bullets, to provide some cherished home-made entertainment for crazies like me, writer dog. I want home!
Wait, this blog is home too? Despite intimidation by some eye-candy blogs (hahaha) and some criticism I’ve received, I’ve soldiered on to carve a niche in the world of the penned.
That’s home to me! What’s home to you?