it’s a long way home

Long waits and long flights

14 hrs to be precise.

there are millions of stars circling my crown

choosing to navigate me closer with each passing breath,

and a Moon that hypnotises me with her pull

Migrating me past borders

my wanderlusting has lead me to familiar grounds,

grounds i’ve scrupled over for years

procrastinating on the day I will part my lips and utter

words so liberating, my veins pop and ache;

“It’s me, I’m home now”.

The Move

I’ve moved too many times than I would care to. Just so I could have a roof over my head. Leaving everything I’ve grown attached to. Forgetting my side of the bed, where to turn on the light and having my routines scattered like dust in the wind. Permanent goodbyes to a place of solitude, knowing I will never go back and if I did, it would never be that place, my place anymore.

Would you even want to go back? I’ve asked myself. It’s hard to pack your stuffs into heavy bin bags up and down staircases till your feet are sore, but it’s even harder to turn back.

How faintly the memories of my first move surface. Ripples of excitement and nervousness coarsed through me. It was my first time in Hungary, far from home which meant I was grown—-or so I thought. How I look back at those years of brooding naivety. The era before my innocence cherry popped. I got older, moved on to…whatever older people do.

Today as I pack yet another bin bag, off yet another light and return yet another key to a place I called home for months. I’m reminded that home is not a place, and to turn back would mean embracing a myth of ritual, ignoring the lighthouse that beckons me to sail onward to wherever home may be.

The Tin Man’s Friend

The light from the tv illuminated the room

Alexander sat on the sofa. Family guy was on, the episode about the Nigerian prince that scams Carter Pewterschmidt. From the side of her eye, she caught a shadow sprawling in the cornfield. It must be the neighbor’s cat, that destructive fur ball that somehow finds its way into her yard at night. She went out there to chase it away.

There was no cat—or raccoon. She crept silently through the small field. Nothing. Half-way back, she felt a jolt that destabilized her, lurching her towards the mud beneath her. A voice above her startled her.

I….m, I am mighty sorry, I didn’t mean to cause you tumble ‘nd rumble.

She leaped into the air, almost instantly. She made out face made of metal, limbs made from old curtain rails, and a body which appeared to be recycling cans. His speech was slurred.

His metal face twisted into what she could only imagine was a smile.

“May I stay here? my home has been destroyed. Promise I won’t be a bother”.

His meekness spoke more than his demeanor. She was more amused than terrified.

“Where is your home?”

“The landfill”, he was pointing west.

Empathy welled up in her heart, “sure you can stay”.

“Mighty thanks, Ms., I will be gone by the break of dawn”.

She began to walk away, from what was inarguably the most bizarre encounter of her life.

“Have an oil spill rocky dream Ms. ….”, he trailed off.

“Alexander”. She added quickly.

He chuckled. ” That’s a funny name for a girl”

“I guess it is”, she played along, “and what is your’s?”

“I never had one”, he mumbled.

“I think I’ll call you Tin Man”, She said, stepping through the door.


There was no trace of Tin Man the next morning.

She went about her work conversantly, finishing with dinner in front of the tv. She found herself wondering if the man of tin had come back. Eventually, she switched the tv off and went outside.

There he was, playing with a cat, completely distracted that he didn’t even see her approach. Then he did.

“Ms.., I call him skittles”

Does he talk too? she joked

“I enjoy the company of furry animals. They are rarely alarmed by me”.

Speaking of company, do you have any family?

“No, I was made by a team of robotic experts at a factory in Sapele”. His head hung as though it was heavy. “But my units started to malfunction, early. They stopped producing me, I was worthless, then they abandoned me in that landfill”. He again pointed West. “I built the rest of my body and my home from scraps”.

“I am not Conversant with my primary function”, he added.

She was amazed, She’d heard of Artificial Intelligence, but she’s never heard of an articulate, self-building robot. Her lips grew into a grimace

“I have no family too”, she admitted. “Just an old tv, and a journal”.

He frowned.

“Mighty sorry to hear that, Ms. I was programmed to believe humans ain’t supposed to be alone,” His eyes lit up almost immediately, “perhaps I could be a friend to you”.

She grinned. “would you?”

“It would be my pleasure”, he retorted

And so they sat in the yard under the night sky and be bid her well before the last vanishing star. He’d come back every night to be with her. Thus, the queerest of bond was forged between a raggedy tin man and a lonesome writer.

Image source: ailustra blogspot.hu/2012/08/homem-de-lata-ti-man.html