Where is home?
Where is home?
Little Aisha cried bitterly,
Is it the hollow walls, the rotten couches or the smelly and greasy concoction mama now calls food?
Are the scattered rooms, the tattered books and broken plates?
Is it the endless shouting, piercing screams and the ticking clock of doom that announces the arrival of a drunk and abusive papa?

When last did I drink clean water?
When last did I breathe fresh air?
When last did mama cook something edible?
When last did anyone say "don't worry, am here."
"Don't worry, it'll get better."
Papa will come home one day smiling like he used to, tickling us till we cried and competing for who will get to taste mama's food.

Little Aisha smiled sadly,
when will the sunshine in mama's eyes be like it used to be?
When will she hold me close and spin tales that caress me to sleep and awaken my dreams?
I wish to see that day
I want to see that day.

I want a home with mama and papa smiling down at me, holding hands and walking down the path of endless bliss.
But until then,
There is no home for me
There is no home for us.
There is no home anymore.