no place like home

sounds too cliché, I know

these words I have grown to hear

every nook, every cranny

home, home, home.

where is home?

home is the soft arms of my mother

stirring a pot of stew atop the cooker

signature stew that dispels hunger.

arms that cradle, comforts and caters,

and wield a vial of oil, stretched

across my head bestowing prayers.

home is the voice of my father at dawn

calling his children before the day begins

a thing he does as duty and for fun.

home is the akara woman around the corner,

whistling while wrapping balls of akara for customers,

sweet savoury smell wafting through the streets.

home is the babble of my nephews,

the patter of their pudgy feet,

and the laughter of their mouths.

home is my siblings’ embrace

the smile across my sister's face,

my brother's unending ribs-cracking gists.

home is the little children playing.

boys dribbling a ball in the street

girls clapping and stomping feet.

home is the voice of the muezzin 

an alarm, loud at the break of dawn

even the dead would be risen.

home is the choristers at church

singing heavenly melodies

that bring peace, joy and hope.

#IkoPoetryChallenge