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Home Finally I am home but I seem to be a stranger to this place every asking eye on me. I look at what used to be and what may become. Mountains with no trees, roads with no tar. My heart sinks at what I see. Old faces, new faces, familiar faces are, all of them, strangers. I hear the grass singing; the trees say we remember you. But friends are gone. Here I stand on top of the Mutare hills looking down to find familiarity. Mothers love, sisters stare, nephews play, hesitant with the stranger in their midst, amazed at how big I have grown. No electricity, no water, smelly toilets. Dead plants, dusty places, dilapidated houses. Authorities don’t give a rat’s ****. My home picture is distorted. It’s hot like hell. Loved ones are gone. Coming home is like walking in a grave yard. Written Tawona Ranganawa