The Foreignness of HOME

Today the 19th of October. 1977.

How strange.

I have never really lived in any other country other than South Africa.  Yet I feel distinctly alien to it.

It’s been four months now since I have been back from  a six-month-working holiday in the West African city of Dakar,  in Senegal the land of the Lion and the Baobab.

And still I cannot make sense of this, my home, South Africa.

What happened to me? To them. To us. Am I once again lost in my country’s constant transitions.

A constant foreigner?

In the desert-sands of my Senegal, there lay somewhere beneath my despair a hope…

That there is a place called home. For me.

I thought I found it.  One day. On the 25 of December  between the Atlantic Ocean, and the River Senegal.

On a strip of Sand.

For a moment, I was at peace and swam  among  sea creatures and crabs.

This morning as I joined thousands upon thousands of the country’s working massive, labourers, maids, garden boys, mamas, gogos, aunties, uncles, tellers, cleaners, students, struggling artists, myself.   I wondered how one could find peace in a place where each morning one is greeted with headlines  such as this one:

Child Hacked with Axe.

and still remain.

SANE.

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