My “Mother” calls to me every waking moment of my life. Living without her is silently killing me. I die a little bit each day that passes by without me in her tender loving arms. Not feeling her, her every scent, the gentle soothing sound she makes on a cold and rainy morning. The beautiful sound of rain drops on courrogated iron sheets is a sound my ears yearn to hear.

My “Mother” feels ‘ALIVE’. The surrogate mother that attempts to do what my “Mother” does so natrually, without much effort feels stiff. I feel no warmth from her cold rigid embrace. My feet do not feel right. This soil is foreign. The air smells wrong. Where are the smooth, gentle rolling clouds that my “Mother” faithfully put out to great me when I woke up each morning? Where are the blades of grass that she gently kissed early each morning and left with a drop of diamond that dangled and gleamed on each blade of grass in the morning sunlight? They said this surrogate mother would make me strong. They said that she would bless me as her breasts were said to flow with milk and honey. Her milk is sour to my taste. O how I long for my “Mothers” milk. It tasted good. It tasted right. The fruit of her land was juicy, succulent and tasted real. Out here, the fruit of this land is dry, tasteless and bland. It’s like it’s essence has been sucked out. I look around me with wonder, sadness and pity. The children of this mother do not know what good fruit really tastes like. So they excitedly eat what their mother feeds them and use words to express how good her food is oblivious of the goodness of the food that my “Mother” feeds her children.

O how I long for you Mama Africa. I can gently heat you cry out to me, come home my son.

Yes, Mama, I say to her. I am coming.

I’m coming home. I’m coming home soon.

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