A Place Called Home

yellow concrete house
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I watched as the air hostess pushed the food trolley down the aisle. The second meal was served on the 6-hour journey. The air hostess stopped beside each row of seats and handed out the professionally packed turkey ham sandwiches with a smile before asking for the passengers’ choice of drink.

When she got to my row, I asked if there was a vegetarian option. She paused and applied the brake to the food trolley with her feet before replying, “No” with her eyes hovering over me. She then asked, “Did you pre-order a vegetarian option?”. I was a bit puzzled not knowing there was a pre-ordering system in place as regards airline meals. I replied in negative both with my voice and facial expression.

The next question the air hostess asked left me unsettled. “Do you want me to pre-order your meal for when you’re returning home?” This question caught me unaware, I paused for a few seconds, millions of neurons connected in my head, and then I replied spontaneously, “I am going back home”. She cast one final glance at me and ruminated over my statement, she then released the break and moved on to the next row without saying a word.

I pondered on the word “HOME”. For whatever reason I didn’t understand what home meant for a brief fleeting moment. Where is HOME? I chewed on this question for the rest of the journey. HOME! WHERE IS HOME? Have I been labelling the wrong place as home? Is the place I called home a home to me? What constitutes home? Where is home?

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The Coming Of Age
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The Coming Of Age

Right within the core of my very self, I am beginning to feel the transition from old to new. The ruling power of my peripheral world is succumbing to a new system of leadership. This evolvement is apparent. The old is metaphorically the younger model of me and the new is my present self, branded with clarity, vision and… wisdom?

I often wish I could travel back in the metonymic time to make a twist and a turn to the event of my past life. This is what the coming of age does; it makes you revisit, review, realign and sometimes rewrite the story of your life.

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Learning To Forgive Yourself

Learning To Forgive Yourself

I went for a job interview at a school not too far from where I live a few years ago. I wanted this job with all my might. The initial interview and the written test were all too easy for me. The last stage was to face the panellists. I prepared, making sure I left no stone unturned.

As expected, I arrived at the school just before lunchtime. When it was time, I walked calmly into the makeshift room for my interview, said my pleasantries, chinned up all ready for the battle.

I was well composed as the interrogation began. It felt like breeze; more of a chat than an interview. The excitement in the air could be felt by all. I could tell the panel of interviewers were happy with me; with my response.

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