While Holding The Golden Globe

I wonder every day how I ended up in this country, covered in orange dust and smoke in the air. Always loud, never a quiet moment, the smell of mangoes in the air during summer and children laughing and playing around the streets.

Behind the government, the politics, the electricity there is a unity of different cultures. Dark coloured people standing hand in hand, years of experience etched into their hands as their feet sink into the moist soil allowing them to drink in the past.

Everyday I wake up to the sound of peacocks saying good morning to the light blue sky, dogs barking at the ghosts nobody can see. The sound of men working and singing, keeping their self esteem up as they sweat in the scorching heat; the sun whipping them on their bare chests and backs. I love the smell of rain here...

I love the way it whips against the barred windows, as if to say let me in! I love the way it pours from the heavens splattering in my hands and caressing my face with its gentle hands, I love the way it whispers in my ears: the secrets of this land.

I used to run away from here, I think, and I used to despise this place. I used to be embarrassed to call this place home...

How did I end up here?