Johannesburg - Home smells like a cooked meal, and sometimes she smells like my father's grave when the gently rising impepho smoke calms down the energy inside home.
My cousin, who named his last born son after my father, sent me a text this week that read; “when are you coming back home?”
For him, home means where we were both born, where he lives, in Limpopo.
But for me, there is a difference between home and homeland.
It has been five years and five days since the passing of my father, and almost 30 years since the death of my mother.
My older brother was robbed and stabbed in the heart in Hillbrow about 15 years ago. He had moved from Limpopo with two hopes; making a living in the city of gold and earthing the soles of his feet in our father's house.
He achieved both hopes in a detrimental manner; as a baker, he kneaded dough at a 7-Eleven in Yeoville and he eventually made it to our father's house, his home he never lived in, in Krugersdorp in a coffin.
There were three of us children to our parents, and I was the last, the one my father got in the separation package.
For decades the dichotomy of my family has been broken from branches higher than me - I'm just a low-hanging fruit who didn't fall too far from the forbidden tree.
So, what is home?
My older sister, Maphefo, ordained to be the Mother of Wind; a spell cast by my parents on their little girl - remember that names are the shortest spells in the world.
God bless her heart, I hardly speak to the Mother of Wind - seldom greetings on WhatsApp is how we send proof of life a few times a year to one another.
This grief has muffled us, and this distance has grown necessary.
We have lost too much, sprouted out our own families and created more chances of love, and loss.
We are content with living apart - how dare we attempt to get close and closer to breaking each other's hearts?
If the law of duality is anything to go by, then distance doesn't only make the heart grow fonder, but perhaps a little cold too - I suppose self-care is a chilling process.
A dear friend and fellow poet, Thobani Mntambo once wrote; “introspection is a one-man sport”.
From playing it, I have come to realise two things;
1. One’s home is family, and family is who you choose.
2. There are too few things that bring tears to my eyes, and talking about my sister is one of them.
Earlier this year she was in ICU and went to Limpopo, but never made it to see her. There were too many Serumula souls waiting on the return of their prodigal son. I am my father to them; a weight I cannot carry in front of their eyes, the memories are too heavy.
To my cousin, I am already home.