A Boy Goes Home.
Home is the colour of life, of nature. When you think of nature, you think of green things; green pastures, green leaves and blossoming flowers with pollinators flying around them. When you think of nature, you close your eyes and see the woods, the stars, the sun, the moon, sunrise and sunset. Nature reminds you of rain, the beauty the rain gives to a green plant, the life, the animation, the energy. Nature reminds you of the sun, the beautiful sight of an impatient sun coming out immediately after a morning mizzle. To you, home is green.
Home is the colour of nature. Brown is the colour of nature. Out of Brown comes Green. How? All these things come out from Mother Earth. Mother Earth is brown, black; anything but Green. Brown is the colour of wood, of trees; everything but Green. Everything came from Brown. Everything shall return to Brown. Everything came from Nature. Everything shall return to Nature. Everything came from Home. Everything shall return Home. And brown is the colour of Home.
Home is not a huge building standing on a hill close to a vibrant river with small trees and a beautiful garden. Home is not the small hut that stands by the brown river where dirty creatures roam, not very far from the enemy’s camp. You can hear bombs exploding somewhere near. You can perceive the stench of fire, of burnt and burning things, of blood, of dead bodies. You can smell Death’s body odour. Home is not where the heart is not.
Home is in the backpack of the geek. Home is the HP laptop (named Rudolf), the small jotter, the black pen (named Joy), the Nikon camera, the smartphone, the phone charger, the USB cords, the flash drive. Home is where Joy does not run and ask you to chase.
Home is not the tent of the refugee. Home is the picturesque mansion faraway in a land northof North where birds sing and dragons drink water, where flowers grow faster than a newly shaved beard, where waters flow peacefully without overflowing their banks, where the sun goes down at the right time and crickets mate at night. Home is the round table where dead father, dead mother, and lost brother all come together to have dinner. To the refugee, Home is where Peace makes peace with you and does not ask for fees.
Home is where dreams come true. Home is where impossibilities abound without being questioned. Home is where you can remove the robes from your heart and watch it dance naked on a platform called freedom. Home is where loud voices turn into whispers and songs. Home is where noisy whispers of strange doings turn into subjects of laughter and friendly jest.
Home is where you remember Lady. Her hair, her lips, her round face, her perfectly shaped nails (your childhood dream), her soft and tender hands, her smile, her tears, her peace, her anger, her laughter, her sadness. Home is where reality fades and gives way for reminiscence. Home is where Lady lives.
Home is not Awolowo Hall for the writer. Home is where ink falls on paper and forms lines and curves and make letters that make sentences that make stories that make life. Home is where the pink bag full of books and the black bag full of nameless objects meet and shake hands and ask how life has been. Home is where the ideas come together and fight for space, for attention, for the ink. Home is where ideas turn into stories. Home is where life is.
Home is the colour of life, of nature. Brown is the colour of Nature. Brown is the colour of Life. I am Home.