No place like home

If I close my eyes I can picture my motherland in all its glory.

The smell of roasted maize and peanuts at the quaint township we would stop at on a long journey.

Local music playing loud, people dancing on the cracked bottle store verandas.

The roaring sound of lorries pulling up for lunch to get the succulent Zimbabwean staple food, sadza and stew.

Sometimes I find myself day dreaming of home, the sweet and tantalising aromas filing the air, from the traditional food.

 

The roads were dusty and bumpy, potholes galore, but that only added to the character of the place.

When the buses pulled away a cloud of dust would linger in the air long after the bus had gone.

It wasn’t luxurious traveling, people packed that you would be lucky to get both your cheeks on the seat.

The roads weren’t the kindest either, you had potholes that could drown a bus.

 

The sun was so hot you could roast maize in it.

Sometimes the heat was so bad even the ground felt like you were walking on embers.

The best place to be would be under the shed of a tree sipping on a cold drink, coupled with maputi or a bun.

 

I remember being at my grandmother’s place, she would spread a rug under the mango tress, seeking refuge from the sweltering sun.

At night, the warmth of the moon embraced us all.

Like a blanket, stars covered the sky as far as the eye could see, a beautiful sight indeed.

There would be unsettling sounds of crickets and all manner of creatures.

At the end of each night at my grandmother’s we would sing gospel songs and pray to thank God for all his blessings.

A highlight for every time I visit her, I am convinced her prayers have been keeping us safe all these years.

 

 

Regrets