I come home holding her hand and you do not cast us out. There is no sizzle of fire, no tyres,
no rocks, no planks. You do not cross yourself and intone the name of your foreign god. He
does not label us – abomination. Taboo. UnAfrican.
We come home. We stay home. We feel at home. We do not hide.
You do not chase us. We do not run. He does not plot against us. She does not pray against
us. The mob does not detain, judge and sentence us. They do not lay in the dark listening to
our passion, biding time to burst in and surprise us. They do not make us re-enact for their
entertainment that most private act. They do not mock us, film us, degrade us. They do not
taunt us or teach the young to boo us.
We are not outcasts. You do not hate us. We do not fear you. We are not lost.