I have managed to squeeze every bit of my body

inside a green colored suitcase and I am going to
find home in the mouth of
a place whose fire has long eloped with the wind.

I remember holding my sides with my fingers as laughs nearly
ruptured my body but now that place is a shadow, a redundant
figure of once it once was.

To touch home is to hurry towards the sun and try not to
succumb to the death that kills bodies after donkey hours on
a non air conditioned bus where Tekno is spitting rubbish that your
countrymen revere and welcome with outstretched arms.

You should be welcomed too.

To touch home however is to meet
faces changed by time, the economy and other demons.

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