A place called home

By Eugene Kabasa

Where I come from, love is hidden in little priceless gestures. It's in how Mama gets mad when you are not home yet at it's half past seven because she misses you. She won't say it. She'd rather go rounds lamenting of how annoying it is that you don't see the worrying you put people through when you are home late. 

Love is in how they send that little girl Fiona to come get you because food is ready and they can't start without you. It doesn't look like love until you are old and busy and worried about traffic and recession and you grow homesick. 

Love is feeling the feet of your little nephews jump over the puddles of last night's downpour like steeplechase hurdles. It's morning and you haven't woken up yet. You can feel the sun through your window. Their feet remind you of the days you were young and fragile, schoolbag pulling you down in the morning dew as you rush to school. And of course you remember love, love is Mama running after you with your water bottle that you left standing on the family table. You will get thirsty at school she says. You don't cry but you know you should. 

Where I was raised, love is dad's safari boots stomping over the sack by the door step kicking off the dust of his feet. He clears his throat and you know he is there, a blue paper bag in his hand and a smile on his face. He takes time taking the shoes off and you stand there at his feet, your head barely getting past his brown leather belt. You wait until he is done then take the shoes to dust them off.

And when you finally leave the nest, it's this love that brings you back home. It's the thought of how things were when you didn't have to pay all the bills. Dad magically made things appear. He had the magic wand of life in his hands. His big hands would drag anything you'd wished for right into your grasp. 

Slowly, you learn that home is not that old mabati house with falling walls and two steep ends on the roof. That home isn't your dad's little resting shade roofed with passion fruit vines. Or his kul where his calves and bulls share a tether peg.

Home is the very people that raised you and the love that they left in your heart. Like a flashlight, taking you through the darkest moments of your life. Or like an old compass, leading you home when you lose your way. Which you do often.

And for me, love is Mama calling as I cross to archives to ask if I had my breakfast. She never ceases to see me as her little kid even when I have grown a full beard around my pointed chin. 

It's picking a call from little Nicole and just listening to her giggle and say nothing at all. Love is Alex acting mad that I don't share my plans when deep down I know all his heart is saying is, "I hope all is well brother"

We don't say I love you, or blow kisses, or peck the handset. We just look at each other and smile. Because there is so much life that we have lived together.