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Content Specialist @ ICUC Social
Oslo, Norway
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What it means to 'Carry Home in a Suitcase'
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</p><p>I have always wanted to write about living in the diaspora. It is not an original thought but since the moment I packed my bags not once, but twice to build my existence in a new world, with a new identity and a new language, I told my poet persona: <em>you will tell this story.</em></p><p>Yet, there were too many stories to tell so I could never make it happen. Which one deserved the attention? Should I tell of the loneliness that never leaves you, the foreignness that sits permanently on your tongue or the bitter truth that you will never feel at home. Should I confess the lingering insecurity of not being the standard, of navigating spaces not meant for you. Or give voice to the doubts and sobering questions you cannot escape or the desire for community that you may never find.
</p><p>It was getting harder and harder to bring my thoughts to a well constructed post so I did what I could do best; I made a piece of poetry called<em><strong> 'The Songs of the scattered'.</strong></em> A suite of five poems that tell all. I do not speak of the technicalities, like 'the japa syndrome' or how to survive in a new country or tips and tricks or the constant trouble of bearing the weight of being the financial caretaker as some people complain about.
</p><p>Here is what I offer to everyone who bears the same truth, living in a city that does not share the roots of home.
</p><p><strong><em><br/></em></strong></p><p><strong><em>To a Land That Does Not Know My Name
</em></strong></p><p>You didn't want to leave / <em>but you had to
</em></p><p>lugging the burden of home, packed tight,
</p><p>in a suitcase bigger than your strength.
</p><p><br/></p><p>You wear the anthem under your sleeves,
</p><p>like magic tricks you save for the night,
</p><p>where it is only you & your lonely thoughts.
</p><p><br/></p><p>You hide spices, like treasured sins,
</p><p> in the corners of your mouth
</p><p>& wrap your mother’s laughter
</p><p>in the folds of old newspapers.
</p><p>—-the chicken crow,
</p><p> the agberos screaming,
</p><p> the chaotic traffic,
</p><p> your father’s native tongue—,
</p><p>You squeeze them into the bottom of the box
</p><p>& bear the weight on your back.</p><p>Dragging your feet slowly,</p><p>to a land that does not
</p><p>know how to pronounce your name.</p><p><br/></p><p>
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What it means to 'Carry Home in a Suitcase'
By
Esther Omemu
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Esther Omemu
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