I am not a nomad
That’s too fancy a word to describe me
It will be a dishonour to true nomads to call myself that
But still, I drift, homeless with a roof over my head
Questions of who I am and why I am pouring in at every waking moment
From here to there and then the next, I move, I slide, I drift
Nowhere, everywhere, anywhere
But really, where is mine?
©Ọrẹolúwa Matẹ̀milọ́lá 2022 All Rights Reserved
Ọrẹ’s Musings 