Home isn’t just four walls
Home is
the beeping horns of mini taxis
The mama that sells vetkoeks by the street light
where dreams are too big.

I am from a place where
nurturing and loving men are looked down upon
“You’re not a real man if you’re committed to one female, ” men’s advice to little boys.
Where being a man is defined by the number of virgins you can “conquer”

I am from a place
I am from a place where girls are raised to be mothers and wives
their whole identity stems from the ability to find and keep a man
where single women are called bitter

I am from a place where love is transactional
Our sisters only hear “I love you,” when laying in someone’s bed
Where women have no ownership of their own bodies,
they are for the taking of men
Where getting cat-called and smacked on the butt by someone we don’t know, is considered a compliment “take the compliment and stop complaining,” We hear men say.

I am from a place where opportunities are limited
and dreams come to die.

I am from a place where pain is nothing to talk about among the young and the old
Depression is in full effect
And dying no longer feels like the last resort but it’s a way to numb bleeding wounds and to escape the dark rooms in young minds.

The dusty streets of Duduza
Even in the midst of hopelessness and poverty
We still find rhythm in our blues
We still watch the stars glow in the sky
hoping that someday we’ll glow like them.

Home
Home is where we all want to come back to because
Our roots run deep.