She sat on her bed staring at the photographs stuck up haphazardly on her closet walls. And she didn't even like photographs. She would tell people gravely that it was because she believed like the Africans that each time the camera clicked at you it took a piece of your soul away. Because it was easier to laugh at their expressions when she said that than to confess that she hated the hypocrisy of it. The fake arms around you, the insistence of the camera that you be happy. Now. But then here she was staring at photographs. All those smiling faces. Her people.
She sighed and picked up the duster from the floor. She always missed home on spring-cleaning days.
No points for guessing the song :)