Home is not plastered with white walls,  

Expensive cars did not litter the compound,  

Home is a simple yellow-colored building,  

Home is eight flats and four shops,  

Home is always bustling.

Home is where you had your first period,  

And your mum used the opportunity to counsel you against boys,  

Holding your hand intently,  

Sternly passing a message,  

You feared she could read through you.

Home is where you ran to when you fell pregnant,  

With only half a degree, and no money,  

Home is where your father held his belt loosely,  

Disappointment, anger, pity swimming through his eyes,  

The belt never touched you, but his presence left you.

Home is where you pushed your unwanted baby,  

Hands held down by your sister and mother,  

While Nurse Sayo shouted “push,”  

Till you had no strength left in you,  

As you struggled through labor.

Home is where you held the lifeless body of your baby,  

Sadness, relief, and pity swam through you,  

As you looked down on the labor of your nine months,  

Which was already in vain,  

Sadness finally filled you.

As you struggled to climb the stairs,  

The memories of your life in House 15 swam back,  

Maybe this was why you never moved out,  

This is where you were born,  

This is where you have chosen to die.

Then you realized, home isn't just the place, home is  the people,  

Your family, who spent weeks at the cancer center,  

Rotating shifts among themselves,  

Home was your father, who fought the matron for leaving you unattended,  

And the warmth of your mother's tears while she shaved your head.

Home is your family, who helped you hold your head through rights and wrongs,  

As the Angel of death snatched your last breath from you,  

You whispered,  

“I’d miss home.”