At first it was a big house, with
many rooms and open space all round it.Spacious lawn on the front side,and an
open verandah or shaded space about eight feet wide which had to be crossed to
enter. It was an 18th Century British style house with the kitchen built on the
side about 10 to 12 feet away from the man building...so it was..a building but
as the family members began arriving and settling down, it became a home.
By arriving I mean migrating'.Leaving the home in another country, yes that was our real home. The place now occupied by the enemy army, forcing people to flee,escape,save their lives by running as far away as possible, across the barbed wire borders and to reach safer avenues with nothing but the dress on the body and if fortunate, the slippers on the feet. Helped by Refugee camps guided to reach surviving loved ones and hoping to make a new home, in a new land on a new space, in a new place.
Home where I was born is no more. The photograph shows a place I may call my childhood home as my parents siblings uncles and aunts ,all lived in it together.
Home is where the heart is . This house with the number 24
was a real home –where we shared food, the games, the movies joys and pains,
and books and stories. The best time where we sat in the warm sun in winters
and often cooked outside. Where Summers brought
home made ice cream with fresh fruit specially mangoes. Where I started school
and fell in love…with stories fables and fairy tales…unforgettable.
