Home is the place I go to find refuge. My haven – my one sure thing in the world. Home is my mother’s garden – so green and so alive with maize, onions, beans, beetroot, carrots and cabbage, chomolier, rape ne tsunga. Home is the place that smells of biltong in peanut butter soup and green vegetables from my mother’s garden nesadza ririkushinyira. Home is the neighbour’s children clanging my gate to ask for their ball back that went over the durawall as they played. Home is feeding my dogs and waking up to their braking in the middle of the night. Home is the smell of rain in the air. Home is rooms filled with laughter.

That’s what home means to me.


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