People, people, people, and more people. Huge tents towering. Lost; I feel I am drowning in a desert of art, soaked to the skin with artefacts. Paintings, sculptures, jewellery, beads and the air thickly-percolated with a tasteful, mouth-watering aroma of chocolate-flavoured muffins, freshly-baked biscuits and sweets from the caravan confectionary. “Where is my kind, I wonder? Where are they in the midst of all this commotion? Do I belong here?”
I am a nomad through these oddly-coloured tents. I drag myself through this foreign world around me. My tail, wiggling, attracts so much unwanted attention. They come all over me with weird smiles pasted on their glowing, pale faces, patting my head and neck as if they have known me for years.
I would rather be in my cosy kennel than be part of this excitement. Everyone seems to be wound up about something. They walk around like the world has just turned all beautiful again. Like these paintings and artefacts whisper sweet words. Words that go straight to their inner being, flowing through their veins, until they clamour at their hearts that they may buy them and take them home.
I long to be taken home too.
By Bhekimpilo Dungeni
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