Maybe it's where the heart is, but if that's the case then my home is shattered into hundreds of pieces, lodged in as many places around the globe. These days it's the dirt and heat and cacophony of colours on a West African street.
Home is baskets piled high with anything and balanced on heads with hair plaited tight. It's a sunburst of sunglasses, twenty pairs held with five weathered fingers as the seller calls out to passers by. It's the press of people when I stop at a market stand, offering help and translation and a good, good price despite the fact that the only thing I need is an avocado or two.
Home is the twins, nestled close to their mama on the sidewalk as we pass by. It's the beggar with the twisted leg who reaches his hand out, not to ask for money but to greet us. It's the women folding and refolding long yards of patterned cloth and the babies playing in the dirt at their feet.
It's nothing like what I'd always pictured for my life, but as I feel the sweat seep through my shirt, marking out the shape of the daughter pressed close to my chest, I know that this place, maybe more than any other, is home.