” You live in a slum”. My friend suddenly blurted out as I walked her home. I looked at her confused not knowing what to say and then she said it again, ” Sheri, you live in a slum”, this time with disgust expression.

It was her first time at my house, what she found out about me was below her expectation. She couldn’t merge my personality with the reality of where I live. The two were contrasting episodes with a wide gap in between.

To me, the word “slum” didn’t describe where I lived. My home was what I called home in all its entirety. There were joy, laughter and stories to tell. It was a place like no other despite our needs.

Where I grew up.

Yes, I grew up in a slum where the extreme shame of sex was apparent. Poverty was a song we sang but the love in this community was profound. Teenage pregnancy was part of the deal and secrets of intimacy were thrown to the open.

My community prided itself of gang rivalry and the use of vulgar words was not an issue to worry about. Domestic violence, substance misuse and display of temper tantrums were all part of what made my community tick.

Yet, it was fun growing up irrespective of the danger and struggles. It was hard not to follow the crowd. Being different was tough order. To be part of the few who saw above the ghetto and chose an uneven path to sanity, there was a price to pay.

Undoubtedly, this community with so many wrongs had a handful of righteousness scattered around. Despite the vices, there were honest workers. People who spoke the truth and people whose love for humanity defined their purpose in life.

My Longing For A Change

As a teenager, I longed to escape from my slum, the poverty, danger and all the scandals. I wanted something better, something I could be proud of, a statue of pride to show to the world.

With age came the opportunity I craved. Above all, the freedom and the options I once longed for arrived; and with all these, I explored all possibilities.

I had lived in communities far different from my ghetto. Where ruggedness had been replaced by the sophistication and a slice of loneliness.

Since leaving my slum nest, I have lived in all sort of abode. Houses with infestations of roaches, slug, snails and creepy crawlies.

I have dined amidst noisy neighbours with leaks, cracks and wetness. Homes with kitchens of my dreams and beautiful nature accomplishments.

Life presented me with opportunities to see castles deprived of love but filled with luxuries. A home with bricks and mortar but no emotions.

The Slum In Me.

My point is simple, what makes a home is more than just walls. Cores values of a home lie in its community.

A few of us grew up without scratches from the harshness of the slum. We weren’t afraid to shout to the world what made us and what we made of ourselves.

Without a doubt, the younger version of me hated the slum and so rightly she needed to. But, this older version misses her community. She misses her bedrock. She misses the bond. The generosity with its rays of kindness.

I miss my family. The people who had sheer strength to survive no matter what life throws at them. I miss the bluntness of the honest ones who had no patience for pretence.

I miss the richness of the soul of the poor. The wisdom in their hunger, their wants and their struggles.

Home is where you call home. Where dreams are made. Home is what you make of it.

My slum. My beautiful slum.