“Home isn’t where you’re from, it’s where you find light when all grows dark.” – Pierce Brown, Golden Son.

 

i.

When I think of home, the only things I can boldly wrap my head around is Lagos, my family of four and our not so small, rented apartment in Ketu. The better parts of my life happened in Lagos and, for obvious reasons, I grew to call it home, something I could never call Ibadan as much as I tried to. Everything felt right in Lagos, there was always a sense of belonging, I wasn’t so lost, I wasn’t so invisible.

I had learned to call everything I could see and touch home in Lagos; from the busy roads, to the noisy bus stops, to the crowded markets, to my mother’s hands, to my father’s voice, to my sister’s chubby form, to the fading cream color of our apartment wall. I made home of everything I could find worthy and unworthy. Home has its own feel, it has the ability to hold even the tiniest of light to keep you from slipping into the dark so easily, it keeps you from shrinking into nothing and it carries your body so well, keeping it from falling apart.

 

ii.

The ache for home lives in all of us, says Maya Angelou. Roughly after a month of resuming the university, I became lost. I couldn’t adapt or navigate my way around a much different environment, new people and even the weather. My mother calls almost every day since I left home. She asks me how I am and how I like it here, I tell her I’m fine, a routine answer I tell her all the time she calls. I don’t tell her I feel lost, I don’t tell her I can’t breathe well here, I don’t tell her I feel sick most of the time and find it hard to digest food. She asks if I made new friends or have plans on joining a department in the church. I don’t tell her I made almost no friends because I couldn’t make home for myself in them, I don’t also tell her that I feel foreign whenever I sit in the church with my elbows nudging other people.

It’s a Sunday and a girl I recognize from the hostel calls my name and says quickly, “Oya, let’s go home.” I ask her where home is and she says, this time with a certain kind of confusion, “The hostel na, abi you don’t sleep there?” I simply tell her I understand. I almost feel sad for myself, every other person could make home or feel at home here, except me.

 

iii.

If there is one thing I miss so much about home, it is the food. I oftentimes cook with my mother; it brings us closer. When my father gets back from work, my mother serves him food, I do too sometimes, I miss serving food to my father. “I had a dream that I was eating with mummy.” I tell my father on the phone when he asks if I had a dream this morning. He prays for me, like he always does, he tells me to reject every dream of eating food. To be honest, I liked that I dreamt of home and eating with him, I so badly want to be back home eating with the rest of my family. I want the semester to be over quickly so I can once again dip my body into the old sofa at home and eat moi-moi made with palm oil.

 

iv.

“I’m leaving for Lagos tomorrow,” I say out loud, loud enough for all of my roommates to hear.
“This girl sef, we just finish exam today and you wan dey go tomorrow. Calm down na,” roommate A says in pidgin. She was the closest I had to home here but I guess it wasn’t enough.
“Na wa for you oh, you won’t even rest after this exam,” roommate B’s slightly bold Igbo accent filled voice played in my ears.

The only place I could find rest is at home, back in Lagos. My journey back to Lagos was rather slow, every passing minute felt like a weight was being lifted, air filled my lungs, my heart ached, anticipation boiled at the very pit of my stomach. My head rests lightly against the window of the bus, the smell of dust and sweat is constantly in my nose, another person’s body is pressing into mine. The person’s body is quite warm, you see, it reminds me of my mother and early warm morning tea. My phone vibrates against my lap, it’s my father, he wants to know where the bus is at. I tell him we’re in Ibadan already. Nothing feels familiar about Ibadan, not even the road, to think I lived here almost 7 years since my birth.

 

v.

The bus finally gets to Lagos and I call home to remind my father to remember that he has to be at Ketu bus stop to take me home when I finally arrive. He’s as excited as I am and it makes me want to cry. The last bus stop is Berger, I’m holding my bags and before I even realize, someone quickly helps me with them, “Madam bring it, shebi na ketu you dey go.” A much older man with a wrinkled face and red eyes says hastily as he carries my bags. I pay him a sum of 150 naira and he doesn’t even say thank you, well in Lagos, nobody send you. I board another bus to Ketu and the anticipation sets in again, this time it’s boiling in my throat. My father’s call stops me from choking on my own breath, he’s already at the bus stop waiting for me.

I take a deep breath when the bus finally gets to my final stop, I drop off the bus with my bags and my eyes search for my father, I feel he’s near. I can finally breathe when I see a familiar figure not too far from me, my father is standing tall with a smile that says welcome home.