A place they call Somalia

I hear them talk

Always in either hushed tones

Or voices laced with melancholy

Nostalgia

And very, very rarely

Do I ever hear laughter

When Mummy and Daddy

Speak of, talk about, discuss

This place they call

Somalia

I asked

Once

A long, long time ago

Where this place was

This place they call Somalia

And with tears in her eyes

She said, “Child, it is a long, long way

From here”

“Yes, son, it is so far in more ways than one

And yet so close to my heart”

I waited

Breathe held

For her to elaborate

Thinking she would

In miles give it distance

As the crow flies

Maybe in days of a camel ride

But I waited and waited

As the tears flowed freely

Down her milk-chocolate cheeks

Revealing pain

Like none I had ever seen

Composed

She went on

“My son, Somalia is a very special place

Even though bullets whiz through the air

Where birds once flew

In my youth

And young men walk about touting guns

Old before their time

Talking of how many magazine rounds

They still have in their weapons

I dare not ask where the rest

Were spent

Or rather on whom”

“It is a place I dreamed I would find my love

And that I did

Dreamed too that our children would grow

To love Somalia as I did

But alas

The nightmare began

Shortly before any of you were born

And now I am content

That I even have a place

To call home

As I relive my dreams

Here in this place we call Jo ’burg

You youngsters fondly call Jozi

Whose official name is Johannesburg

So far in reality

From that place we call Somalia…