If I asked you what home was
I wonder what you would say,
Because home for me is the small dusty hand-print
on the inside of white-washed walls.
The calling card of a child who knows that life lives just outside,
halfway between the doorway and the sky.
It’s the way that half sun softens
and shows universal languages of selflessness
when it wraps crimson textures on red soil before she sleeps
under a moon the beams silver spoons vivid,
so alive, you’d imagine cats in cradles,
and check your dish for legs.
If you get my gist just listen, it’s harder than it sounds,
Home is the way that plants grow through holes in the road to
the way that time means everything
depending on whether you’re using a clock
or your tongue to tell it.
Because two hands aren’t big enough to measure its depth,
your presence, your past or direction.
It’s making plans off beaten tracks,
it’s the fact that where I’m from
there’s a traffic light that shows red and green at the same time
like reflections of life are enshrined by crossroads.
But we live on a sphere where people like boxes and lines
that define where home begins and ends
like we weren’t built to share gardens that shelter what’s yours and mine
Like our sunshine is eclipsed by difference,
It’s cloaking skins in Union Jacks, Zimbabwe Birds and Star-Spangled Banners
that make us forget the true meaning
of a human home.
We can still hold hands
over a dead man’s depiction of a bordered world,
And my story isn’t written on one page,
So home for me
is also passionate rebellion in the underbelly of an imperial beast.
It’s activists branded with tipsy dreams of freedom for all.
Malfunctioning cogs in a man-made machine that’s always been
operated under the influence of the most corrupting of drugs.
It’s having the power to blow clouds away with cigarette smoke
because you don’t know how cold I get sometimes.
Home for me is warmth.
If it’s places for you then for me
it’s people whose bric-a-brac bricks break down walls
and make this place seem that little bit more open
Because I want to believe in
with Bolivian roots
and Palestian Samurais
with a penchant for change,
Zimbabwean Ninjas seeking scrolls ‘cos they can.
Swiss anarchists who make mocolate for fun,
poachers who pedal the skins of their counterparts just to make a point,
commercial rappers who believe their ‘crib’ is not their home
And Roman Emperors who act like Bhuddists when in Rome.
Home for me is knowing that borders are scabs,
dried up blood lines of kith and kin,
conqueror and slave.
Flags in a dust that moulds all footprints
and praises no leader or tribe.
A dust that has no warring desires,
humble enough to colour feet regardless of skin,
To make horizons you could cry to.
Not lines in the sky.
It sees itself as the canvas
on which the longing we have for one another
finds paint to make art
that looks like Rockabilly, Dubstep, Reggae/Jazz Fusion spat in
Creole Hip Hop,
with A’capella breaks on silent nights
styled by a Euro-Tech Dread-Punk
to flickers of a Banjo, Birimbau and a chorus of stirring string and horn sections,
A dust that will touch paw prints of children
to leave us memories of a younger wisdom
that screamed out with unclenched fist.
That home is only ever as far away as
the distance between me
and everyone you’ve ever known
Based in Harare, Dikson is a slam poet who has performed on many stages, including the SHOKO! Festival and the Arts Alive Festival in Cape Town. He was the youngest competitor and semi-finalist in the UK Radio 4 national Slam Championships. He has performed alongside Tumi Molekane, Ewok and TJ Dema. He has performed in a number of countries, and has had his works translated into German and Danish.
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