Leaf-laden footpath, lead me to my new house. Where I can retreat into low-fi hip hop and thick socks. Candles lit, they alight the evenings spent hiding with friends. Inside with cheap wine. Percentage to price ratio, we know how to make the best of it. Our smiles go to show. But I always try to find the time to write the further ones a letter. Remind them that in my darkest moments they were my anchor, my shelter. Years spent grappling with this idea of home. Loose tea brewing, thinking of the fourteen bedrooms past. I don’t mind being alone. I hear my ancestors sing songs of encouragement. Twenty one years before I visited our land. I brought back a heart-embellished sleeve and a rucksack, filled with their smiles. Embodiment of belonging. I unpack them in this new room. Light the incense and see them dance. Delicately. Towards the ceiling.
Some sense of cultural healing.
Becoming realigned. Until now, half of my body felt displaced. I always chased acceptance and people always demanded a race. I’m sure they still will. But I have no need to run. I have come to know my place. Much to their disappointment, it is not static. I can move as much as I want. Nothing is predetermined apart from my right, to bring it with me. Carry it in my vocal chords. Wear it in my hair. No longer diaspora without a compass. Armoured in love and grounding even when stripped bare.