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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
Copyright © Tawona Mzila Ranganawa | Year Posted 2013
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