Home is where you feel safe. Home is where you feel free. Have I ever felt at home?

Perhaps there was a time.

A time long ago when I was a little girl in Katlehong township of Joburg where I was born. Even then I wasn’t sure if that was home. You see my father and mother told me my home was in Malawi, a country I had never been to. A country that is twenty percent water, water stretching out as far as the eye could see. A lake as big as an ocean – the tenth largest lake in the world.

“Imagine, Wonanji,” Mama would say, “the taxis in Malawi are boats.”

“How Mama? Akuselona iqiniso? Can it be true?”

I knew taxis. We used them every day. There was the one with the gold, glittering lettering on the side that said ‘Vukuzenzele’. The taxi driver’s favourite song was Destiny by Malaika and when it played he turned up the volume so high that the whole taxi shook from the thumping speakers, as we drove to town.

“In our country we use boats as taxis. If I want to go to the market I climb in the small boat and we cross the lake.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as the taxis here. Except for the hippos. You have to watch out for those,” Mama laughed.

“Hippos!”

“Yes. Abokho, imagine that.”

I experienced one thing about what it was like to live in Malawi – from Mama’s cooking. She cooked food from her home country: nsima ya thelele – pap with soup. It had its own rich, delicious aroma yet no spices were added. It got its rich taste just from adding herbs from Malawi.

Back then in Katlehong I could say that I had a home. It was Mama and Baba and my brother whom we called Lovie, and me – together a family. My brother was clever. He was the star pupil, the best in class. A teacher’s dream. And we were all proud of him.

Home back then was a place that I felt safe.

And then something happened that broke that safe home apart.

One morning I saw something on a towel next to the washbasin that made the fear rise up in my throat. It was blood.

That blood didn’t come from a cut. The blood came from inside my father. He coughed it up. Soon he started to fade away before our eyes as he became sicker and sicker. I could see fear in his eyes. He looked defenceless against the disease that was attacking him.

Baba worked on the mines and they made him ill. He lived in the hostels at the mine, far away from us and home.

When I asked him why he couldn’t live with us he would say: “Ndikupanga sogolo lanu ana anga, I am building your future here my children.”

That was what kept him going, knowing that working underground on the mines would give us food to eat and shelter.

When I saw Baba going to work I would tell myself: “One day, I will work for the mines, but not underground in a hot, dangerous mine shaft, only coming up when the sun has gone down, for hardly any money. I will work as a geologist. I will work hard and become rich so that my father will never have to work again in his life and his dream will come true of seeing us succeed.”

But I was only ten and Baba was sick and dying. He had no smart medical aid plan. There was only one thing he thought would make him better.

“We are going back home,” Mama told us one night.

“We are home,” I said.

“Home to Malawi.”

Mama’s home, Baba’s home. Not mine. I had never been to their home. They had a whole life there that I could only guess at from their stories.

Imagine that. I had never met my grandmother or grandfather or aunts or uncles. I couldn’t even speak their language, Chewa. No, I spoke Zulu, like Mapule who lived next door.

Every day we would walk together to school: Mapule, Esther, Irene and me. We went to the same primary school with my brother, but I did not want to walk with him on my way home. There were some things I wanted to do on my own with my friends. Esther and Irene’s parents were also from Malawi, like mine.

We would play hula-hoops, skipping and umgusha, and we would gossip about the boys in our class. We all had a crush on a boy called Bright. We would laugh about who he would choose amongst us. Bright was loved by almost every girl in the street. He had a sweet tooth and was always buying chocolates, and amashwamshwam snacks.

On Sundays we would all dress to impress because we knew that Bright would be at church and after church he would buy a girl he liked amashwamshwam.

One Saturday Mapule announced: “Ngizogqoka ilokwe lam elisha kusasa ekonzweni, I will wear my new dress tomorrow.” The rest of us were sad because we did not have any new dresses to impress Bright in. Mapule was going to be a winner of chocolates or amashwamshwam on that Sunday.

That was my life in Katlehong. And I was happy, until Baba got sick.

The day that I told Esther and my friends that I was going to Malawi they were sad. I told them I hoped that we might meet again some day, but I didn’t know when. We laughed about it but our small little hearts felt the sadness inside.

I guessed that someone else was going to win Bright. I had lost the bet of who would end up with him. Before I even had a chance it was over. I liked Bright, and not just for the chocolates and shwamshwam he would buy. He was my first crush.

All my friends came to say goodbye. The girls hugged me and the boys, including Bright, waved as we got into the taxi that would take us to the bus station.

As we sat waiting for the bus I remember wanting time to remain still and not move forward. It was the most painful time for my family. My father couldn’t breathe properly as he sat on the chair. He was too weak to speak. It was just silent. My mother, father and brother just sat still and silent. Only our hearts spoke. We were so sad.

“We have to go now. The bus is here,” Mom said.

Angazi ngizophinde ngimubone nini ubhuti wam, I didn’t know when I would see my brother again. His teacher had persuaded us to let him continue his schooling in Katlehong as he was doing so well.

“My son, take care of yourself. Know that I am proud of you. Do not resent us for making this decision – it’s for your own good.” My father gathered the energy in him to say those words to my brother.

We only had faith and hope in God left.

Father in heaven, who knows all things, at this time we praise and raise your glory that you may comfort our hearts and give us courage so that your will shall be done, until we meet again, Amen.

I had never left Katlehong and now I was on the Via Afrika bus flying along the tar roads, my eleven-year-old heart a tangle of feelings.

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Tell us: What does home mean to you?