By Kasambula Jinah

Masaka soil still sits under my nails,
the brown dust that feels the shape of my feet.
When Kalisizo gets loud, I close my eyes
and hear the quiet of our compound.

My brothers are my first map pointing me home.
He whispers “Jinah” and stitches it into everything he does.
When Kalisizo is noisy, I hear him, “Jinah! Stop and listen.”
He saves me fried groundnuts on Sundays, like a prayer I can taste.

People ask me where I fit in the city,
as if a heart can live in one room.
I tell them I carry Masaka with me, in the way I speak.

Belonging is not a place I left in Nagaka.
It’s my brother’s voice on a call at night, “Oli otya, Jinah.”
It’s the echo of his laugh in my mind,
saying, “You are mine. You are here. You are home.”

— Kasambula Jinah