As the bus drove into town, Luniko felt a pang of sadness, and of disappointment. She had been awake since the sun came up, taking in all the wonderful sights she saw through the window. The last town they had stopped at was beautiful and she got to take a few selfies for her Facebook and Instagram posts. She had been eager to take a few more when they reached their destination.

But now, as she sat on the bus, with a few passengers starting to stir awake, she realised she would not be posting anything for a very long time.

‘Makhomeni Welcomes Tourists’ read a big billboard at the entry of the small town, and Luniko wondered which tourists would want to come to this place. The billboard had been put up some years back, when she was still at primary school. It had spoken of the wonderful and thriving place Makhomeni once was.

The picture on the billboard was of local residents: a nurse in her bright uniform; students at the library with huge bookshelves full of books behind them; a baker holding steaming loaves of bread; women with freshly woven grass baskets on their heads, laughing and walking; a vendor at his fruit stall with juicy, fresh fruit and vegetables; and a farmer standing among his livestock.

All were beaming at the camera, their beautiful smiles welcoming and fresh. But now the colour looked faded and even their smiles seemed sad. The people’s faces looked tired and worn out, beaten by the harsh sun. The greenery that was once around them looked dull and grey. Makhomeni was not looking attractive at all – not like anything she remembered.

She took a minibus taxi from the bus station and went home. When she arrived, her mother came out of the house to greet her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’ve arrived?” her mom said, hugging her. “I would have come to fetch you.”

“Don’t be silly Mama. It’s not like I was going to get lost,” she said, after they broke their embrace. “Although this place has changed so much since I left home,” she said as she looked around.

The houses in her street were also not as bright and shiny as she remembered. The avocado tree at the corner was dry and fruitless.

The driver helped take the luggage inside the house. “Would you like a glass of water or some juice?” she offered him, when he brought in the last bag.

The young man smiled and nodded, accepting the cold beverage from her in the kitchen. It was hot and his car didn’t even have air conditioning. He had complained about the heat as they sat in the traffic through town.

After he left, her mother sat down with her in the lounge. It was much cooler in the house, and Luniko was grateful to be home.

“Oh, my baby, you look beautiful, but haven’t you been eating in that Johannesburg?” her mother said.

“Oh Mama, I missed you too. You can feed me now that I’m home.”

“Well, I know this place is not as glamorous as Johannesburg, but it’s home,” her mom said smiling. “Your sister left early for school. They have morning classes and afternoon classes, so she might be home late.”

“That’s okay. I’ll probably get some rest so long.”

“I’ve put your bags in the other room. Xoli stays up till late studying these days, so you’ll be glad to have your own room.”

“Enkosi Mama,” said Luniko as she smiled and kicked off her shoes. “You really didn’t have to do that. I would’ve moved them myself.”

“I’m not an old lady, you know. My arthritis is fine; it’s not as bad as it used to be.”

Her mother had extended the house with some of her retirement money. Luniko went to her new room and threw herself onto her clean and fresh bed. She hadn’t got any sleep on the bus and her body was aching. She would wake up later and get supper going before her sister returned from school. She closed her eyes and listened to the sound of the buzzing fan above her, as she drifted off to sleep.

Tell us: Where would you rather be – small town or big city? Why?