The longer one stays away from home the more you become a stranger whenever you go back. It happens to me with every trip home. After six months at times. Home is really where the heart is, they say. But where is mine, I wonder almost everytime I find myself in the waiting areas of airports, at the cold halls of long distance bus stations and at the crowded and noisy taxi ranks. For hours at times. None of the places I have been so far can say they have a claim on my heart. I am yet to find where home is. Maybe somewhere alonge the long streches of the N1 that connects the North from the South lies my yet to be discovered home.
You see, I had thought that home to my parents is where my heart is. With age I have come to accept it as a place where everything I know is. Happiness, Love, Family, friends etc. People grow, I’ve grown and the more I realise it the more I cannot stand to be at this place for one solid week without going up the wall, thinking I could be part of something bigger out there somewhere
I am not the person who can be thrown into contentment and stayed that way. I am about making an impact and touching people, I’m into the sort of presence that is to be felt. In my village thats what I am, one of many that was produced there. I am happy being there. A home grown child who has finally come home, to stay? I think not. Its comforting to know that I will always have that one place to go if all else fails. The same knowledge always make me want to go out and find my place in the world. And home to my parents is that fallback cushion that inspires me to find where my heart really is.