A bentwood rocking chair, weathered and heavy, embodies those who came before - migrants who journeyed to the City of Gold, carrying both burden and hope, carving out survival in spaces never built for their rest. It's worn (cane weave) frame speaks of endurance, of the weight histories that make dwelling possible today. In contrast, a paper plane gifted by my nephew captures the fragility of dreams, folded lightly yet laughed with intention. Together they ask: What does it mean to be at home in Johannesburg? Perhaps it is to inherit the weight of struggle while daring still to imagine flight.

 Ayandamacirha,

28, Johannesburg

This wooden stool was bought for my elder brother on my parents' first trip to Cameroon (my father's home). He was 2 at the time. Then I used it when I was born. It has been with me all of my life. These days I sit on it when making fires in the winter, and on occasion just for the sake of it. It reminds me of family and what love and care can look like.

Emeka Ntone Edjabe, 27, Orange Grove

This object is closely attached to my childhood memories and the memories I have of my late grandparents. This Victorian style chair is part of a dining room table set that my siblings and cousins would share a meal around or sit around while watching TV in my grandparents modest dining room. I associated this chair with such memories 

Neo Diseko, 29, Soweto

The object I have selected is my phone. I selected this device because it’s become an extension of self, the way it has exposed me to different worlds and cultures all while being  tailor made to my niche-interests, preferences and personality. When I feel lonely and alienated I can connect with those I love, when I’m anxious in a new place, with new faces, I can whip it out and mindlessly scroll or text someone, immediately feeling grounded and safe. I can relive any moment by visiting my camera roll or music history. My phone is my utopia where I can censor uncomfortable media and access uplifting media, where I can learn and express myself by diarising my thoughts and feelings. 

Vuxie Nxele

My mug once belonged to my late mother, who loved her coffee made just right and not as strong, a touch of sugar, warmed milked and always in this mug. Now, it’s more than a cup; it’s a connection. Each morning, when I pour my coffee and wrap my hands around it, I feel her warmth and care. The familiar shape and faint coffee scent bring her presence back to me, turning an ordinary moment into something deeply comforting. It makes any place feel like home.

Fortunate Ncube