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  • Writer's pictureNeo Dulaze

This Is Home

Home is our Eden, where our story begins.

Home is where our hopes begin, where learn to love and where we learn to dream.

Home is where our guardians hold us and bind up our wounds when we fall and scape our knees.

Home is sweet milk tea and buttered bread – it is bowls of steaming soup in winter and pitchers of ginger beer in summer.

Home is a nostalgic Sunday playlist - the crooning of Tevin Campbell and soulful longing of Anita Baker. Home is Rex Rabyane and Miriam Makeba.

Home is fiery game nights and rowdy karaoke parties.

Home is a glass of wine after a long day, the works of Toni Morisson or Claude McKay.

Home is a soak in the tub with a scented candle.




Home is canned peaches and cinnamon croissants, fresh berries, and contoured dessert bowls full of ice-cream.

Home is a mother's joyful humming, her freshly ironed church uniform hung proudly on the wardrobe door.

Home is a father's newspaper and pipe tobacco - fine whiskey and the news of the day.

Home is a grandparent's stories of struggle and sweet courtship in a bygone age.

Home is where we are reminded to use a coaster


Home is an endless December afternoon, a lush green lawn and sparkling blue pool.

Home is a roaring fire, crackling with life and warmth.

Home is baby pictures and wedding albums, memories of jubilation and ululation.

Home is birthday parties with jumping castles and slices of frosted cake.

Home is steamed bread and stew.



Home is me.
Home is you.
So, welcome home.
  • K



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