He called my home a shithole,
I know he meant a dark place filled with flies and smells that make you retch where waste and decay reign,
I know he meant I was less in some way coming from that place.
My home maybe dark but is also full of joy: people laugh in trouble,
children smile with hunger,
lands yield bountiful and green.
It smells sometimes: cloying stench of corrupt, gluttonous leaders and rotten systems; but at others,
the air is clear with the scent of rain, Queen of the Night and palm wine.
There is waste and decay, but from these life grows, seeds take root and soon will fruit.
It is not the names called but the nature of a place that matters,
the good that spring from it,
life, hope, happiness,
the sound of laughter, dance steps
and revival rising from her depths to conquer all.