In my homecoming, I felt welcome. Every bleep of a taxi’s horn, every minute without steady electricity and every song and tongue my heart recognised was a testament to this being the land of the blood of my blood. I was surprised by how quickly I adjusted. My vocabulary made room for the pidgin I took on, I spoke louder, gesticulated more, and made the effort to concentrate any Nigerianness that life abroad had diluted.
I would say this strategy worked for me, mostly anyway. During the weeks I spent at NYSC orientation camp, it was a game, seeing how deep into a conversation I could go before the dreaded question came up and with it, the barriers of assumptions and perceived foreignness: where did you go to university? At first, I avoided the question, because I have seen how some people look at me when I tell them it wasn’t in Nigeria. To some, my experiences became somehow less authentic and my identity as a true Nigerian, innate sufferhead and all, came into question. To others, it was another class divide, and every conversation that followed was tainted by my privilege. A few other times, it truly did not matter, and Nigerian was an adjective painted across a myriad of experiences and backgrounds.
In my homecoming, I felt the optimism and zeal of youth grate against the harsh realities, not only of life in general, but of Nigeria’s astonishingly inhospitable variation. I was surprised anew as to how a country could house so many systems that were coordinated only in working against its citizens. Like many Nigerians, but later in life than most, I had to learn to manage my frustration and anger and choose their instigators carefully, for my sanity’s sake. I had to learn that ambitions and goals are treasures to be guarded, treasures that could erode with the complacency and scepticism that laces the air.
One of the many things I was unprepared for was the near-loneliness of the returnee. Work and living with family ensures steady flow of conversation and company, but there was always a reckoning. The interesting thing about spending your formative adult years in a place that is not your birth-home is that you build a base, a safety net of people, memories and places, only to leave when the mesh is strongest. It is a dilemma because although I went in acknowledging its transience, the once-strange land that bore witness to loves, losses, anxieties and healing became the place I unwittingly called home. And there’s the rub. Upon my return, the land of the blood of my blood no longer fully felt like home. That title had now been shared across borders. There was a period of suspension. During this time, subconsciously, I was tittering, trying to find my equilibrium. This involved making new friends, seeing as many of the relationships I consciously invested in were now long-distance. This also meant being intentional in keeping up with people I value, time difference and distance be damned. Then there’s the FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), seeing the people you love loving without you. It is through this melange of friendships gained, lost, and nurtured that one has to be willing to experience fully an old place that feels new.
If anything, I am learning to be present, to be willing to commit to knowing and experiencing every where and when I find myself. Life is not neat enough to be compartmentalised, and loves, friendships, and lessons spill over. I know, at least, that my life is not without purpose, and I choose to believe that God has intended for me to have been everywhere I have been, and for me to be where I am now. I don’t want to live my life in anticipation of a return to how things were, to the security of university or the bubble of independence it offered. For now, I am reacquainting myself with my family and my country, seeing what there is to see, and learning what there is to learn.
The Yellow Blanket 