I could write a novel on the smells of home. My city town is warm, warmer than the sun, the sum of the warmth of its parts like no other. I could write a symphony on the sounds that it makes as it breathes in life and exhales slowly, holding on to each breath as long as it can. I can feel it moving beneath me, around me, inside me. This pride, this loathing, this love i have for my home. But, my eyes are still clouded by youth and inexperience and margins and percentages and statistics that make me a part of this, a part of that. I welcome the warmth of winter like it was summer's sweet kiss. And oh, how i have enjoyed my summers. I could write endless poems about how my summers are filled with love and beauty and longing. I wish I could show the world my home and see how proud I am of where I am from. But, there is always this loathing. I cannot release it from my heart for the love I have is the other side of my hatred. This is my home, but, I do not feel at home, I know not what the feeling of home is. I've tried to write prescriptions on how to feel at home, what medicinal route to take, what dosage I should take the sights in. But, my home is not mine to love. It was created by people who know nothing about me who I know nothing about. I can't make myself leave because this is the only thing like home I've ever known. But I do want to be free, outside where they sell 5 emalangeni umbila on the street. But I'll never fit in. Because my tongue does not roll the same way and my tone does not tone the same way. I am an outcast and a statistic. A percentage on a paper that more than 13% of the people of this country cannot read. Don't forgive me, for I have done nothing wrong, but let me be in peace and let me stay without quarrel. Because my home is mine. And nobody can take it from the depths of my heart.
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