“I wish I could go home,” he said. “I love this country. I love it. But it’s not home for me.”
“Well, you could go home,” Mma Ramotswe said. She nodded in the direction of the border, not far across a few miles of scrub bush, behind the hills. “You could go home now, couldn’t you? There’s nothing stopping you.”
“That place is not home anymore,” he said. “I left it so long ago, I don’t feel at home there.”
“And this place? Here?”
“It’s where I live. But I can’t ever belong here, can I? I will never be from this place. I will never be one of these people, no matter how long I stay. I’ll always be an outsider.”
She knew what he meant. It was all very well for her, she thought; she knew exactly where she came from and where she belonged, but there were many people who did not, who had been uprooted, forced out by need or victimisation, by being simply the wrong people in the wrong place. There were many such people in Africa, and they ate a very bitter fruit; they were extra, unwanted persons, like children who are not loved. ‘
— “The Good Husband of Zebra Drive” by Alexander McCall Smith
The everlasting quandry I find myself in every moment of every day.
“I am a traveller.
You call me stranger.
No matter where I go,
I don’t belong.
But, still my restless heart
Is ever moving
No matter where I am
I am at home.”