Going Home
by Jenny Dunkley

Heaviness, an impenetrable heaviness descends upon the young man behind the fast food counter. A suffocating heaviness, so thick he almost chokes as he opens his mouth to greet the next customer. Gulping thick, coagulated air, he feels as if he cannot see his hands as they paddle around in the murky soup of despair. He hands her the brown paper bag containing her preservative-laden burger-on-the-run.

Enough! Enough of this meaningless existence. Enough of watching this strange world rush by as he struggles to understand, to find his place, some sense of belonging. With the weight of his isolation bearing down on his stooped shoulders, he hangs up his apron and without stopping to collect his meagre wage, he leaves.

He sleeps and wakes through the long train trip. At one point struggling into a sitting position to look out of the window. It is still dark and he can see no lights, no sign of life in any direction. The train thunders through a station. 'Next stop is home', he finds himself thinking, tingling with surprise at this thought, for 'home' has not been a part of his life for many years. Reflected in the window of the train, he sees his face, as if for the first time, his skin shining darkly behind full, smooth-lined lips that hint of a smile. The white of his eyes contrast against his dark pupils, eyes that dart quickly, seeming to come to life. The yellow of his shirt bright against the blackness outside the window. Nobody speaks but he doesn't mind as he feels the heaviness within himself begin to lift. Home!

The train doors open - a gaping mouth spewing forth a stream of passengers, a sense of purpose in the hustle and bustle of the crowded station.

In the pale light of morning he inhales the familiar pine-scented forests, the kind coolness of the shady lane. And exhales the desperate residues of that strange and busy city. He arrives at the farm, his childhood home, the place of innocence before his father was killed during the riots at the university where he taught. Before he and his family were forcibly removed from the land of their ancestors. Before he made his way to the city to find work to support his mother and sister.

Tiles have blown off the roof and lie smashed around the weather-warped front door that still has no key and doesn't quite close. It looks shabby and neglected but feels deliciously familiar. He can see that no one has been here for a long time. Tucked into a plastic sleeve and pinned to the door is an official-looking notice, faded, yet the message clear:

THIS PROPERTY EXPROPRIATED FOR THE PERMANENT DWELLING OF THE ORIGINAL INHABITANTS OF THIS LAND

His footsteps echo through rooms long empty, yet, in his head, alive and filled with the patter of children running through damp smelling rooms, climbing onto the faded green rose-printed couches from another era, another lifetime. Footprints on the dusty wooden floors - his footprints mingle with those of a wild cat or two, slithers in the dust mapping the journey of a lizard or small snake.

He enters the old farm kitchen, once the warm heart of the house, memories... Opening the peeling blue pantry door, a chipped, pale yellow enamel bowl, left behind by those who have not been here for many years. How many times had he sat on this same wide window sill watching his mother proudly bake glorious, sweet 'steamed' puddings in this bowl? Listening to her sing her promise of nourishment and comfort "Thula baba, musa ukhula umama uyeza nokutya kwakho,
"Thula baba, musa ukhula umama uyeza nokutya kwakho,"

Her song a promise of a deeper nourishment, a feeding of souls in a time of pain and strife, as she prepared heart warming meals in this kitchen, the aromas filling the house and calling all to gather round and eat in a togetherness that spoke of forever.

"FOR THE PERMANENT DWELLING OF THE ORIGINAL INHABITANTS OF THIS LAND."

Deep in thought, he stands at the window, his seat imprinted on the dusty window sill, watching the reflection of the pink Azaleas shimmer across the dam and the liquid amber trees flaunting their rich autumn hues, remembering a time when, in his innocence he raced barefoot through this garden with playmates mutually oblivious to the difference in their skin colour and tongue. In these cool, damp, pine-scented forests they built 'African huts' and played at happy families or school, they fed the chickens, fished in the dam and collected bright green tree frogs, insects and snakes in old jam jars.

Shrugging himself out of his reverie he feels the last vestiges of despair and isolation slide from his stooped shoulders. Straightening, he moves with a renewed sense of purpose. Another journey to be undertaken, quite soon, a journey filled with hope and anticipation. A hurried journey to the plains of the Transkei to fetch his mother and sister. To bring them home to the place where the ears of his ancestors will once again hear the sounds of his mother's singing - to bring them home.

© Jenny Dunkley