Notes from a Visit Home
I am homesick.
This is what I realize at four in the morning. I’ve been staring into the gloom of my bedroom ceiling for five hours, trying to remember who I used to be. Son, brother, cousin, Christian, Nigerian; none of these ring true. Only “writer” makes sense anymore, and even that only makes sense in the way Glenn Beck’s rants make sense; epiphany through mule-like belief.
In a way this is freedom. What is it to be a Christian but to fold ones ungainly self into the neat cube religion dictates? Who is a son if not the embodiment of his father’s hopes, fears and regrets? And if one is not Nigerian, one has nothing to do with the 140, 000,000 resilient and fun loving scammers who are curiously prone to religious violence.
My gut knows better.
I miss them all; my folks and family. I miss my faith and my fucked up country. I may be free now, but it feels like I’m riding a camel across a tightrope. Bassey Ikpi’s poem recites itself in my head. I decide to visit Nigeria before the year is out, December maybe. I am homeward bound and already I can see it as it will be.
My father is waiting at the airport. He smiles when I prostrate to greet him and when I get back to my feet, he will hold me close and say “God bless you, son.” My little brother and sister have grown again, like tall tales on each retelling. I greet their mother and she hugs me and slaps my back affectionately.
Outside, the Harmattan wind shoulders its way into my nostrils and mouth, dumps the cool dust it carried all the way from the Sahara into my lungs. The hawkers and touts are waiting too, they jostle and call out their wares with hand signals, it is open outcry at its finest. Any one of them would have ruled the Pit at the NYSE in the days when men still controlled the trading.
I sleep terribly for a few days. When I am awake, I gorge myself on Jollof rice, roll pounded yam, eba and amala into perfect balls before dipping them into stews. I crunch chin-chin until my jaws ache, send out my little brother for Okin biscuit and cubes of Choco Milo.
I am not satisfied.
Even though this is Abuja and not Lagos, I am terribly careful whenever i go out into the city. My fists are one finger away from clenched and my brain issues threat assessments for every man, woman and child I encounter. I dress in my worst clothes, wear my scruffiest shoes. Everyone still knows I have “just returned from abroad.” It is something in the eyes.
The paranoia passes after a few days.
My father and I talk. It is man to man, for most of the time. We disagree and he becomes a knowing father and I, a naive son. Maybe we don’t disagree. I tell him how scared I am. He opens his Bible and shows me God’s promises. Right then, I want him to be my father and not my pastor, but I know he loves me. There is never any doubt about that.
I don’t recall seeing a violin until I was near twenty years old. My little sister plays now, and she is bloody good. She plays for me. She calls me names, steals my novels to read and shrugs when I tell her to do something. Her English is better than mine and she doesn’t speak much Yoruba. I worry she is too bratty little sister, too Western (oh the irony). I remember how many pairs of my glasses she broke as a toddler. I am missing her young adulthood.
In the back of an old wagon now, a long distance taxi. Fellow travelers and I crash into its metal skeleton as the driver power slides around potholes. I grin like a fool the entire time. Several hours and several States later, I stand before my mother’s house. She is as thin and beautiful as I remember and I sweep her up. I want her to sit and talk to me, but she is at the stove, she insisting I eat. Don’t I want some of my mother’s cooking? And how come I didn’t tuck in my shirt? I’ve missed her cooking, it doesn’t taste the same.
No matter how long it’s been since I called her or she called me, I am still her overgrown son and she loves me. There is never any doubt about that. But she drives me crazy and she makes me sad and even though I haven’t seen her in several years, only two days pass before I’m in another wagon heading back the way I came.
My little brother blushes when I ask him about his girlfriends. He plays the Saxophone, and I pester him for lessons, but he wants to play video games or run around on those shoes with wheels in their soles. Only when I tell him I want to learn the Sax to wow my girlfriends does he relent. While he shows me where to place my fingers, I will think of the time all those years ago when he somehow managed to pee in his eyes and we laughed until we cried.
At church on Sunday, I sing and clap and dance until I am sticky with sweat. I mumble when everyone begins to pray in tongues. In my head, I ask God to help me believe in him again. While the Pastor begins to preach about breakthroughs, I wonder why it’s always about breakthroughs and contracts and promotions and want. Why is it never about love or redemption? The service takes too long and I fall asleep a few times. I do not believe.
My big brother is the best man I know. I wish we saw each other more.
We travel to my father’s village. If the mood strikes, we sing songs from The Sound of Music on the way. Maybe we sing hymns instead. My grandmother is slowing down now. Everyone calls her Mama Bessi, but her name is Elizabeth. I’ve never had a full adult conversation with her. I don’t speak Iyagba, my mother tongue. She asks how I am, I ask how she is.We snap pictures. Her efo oniru is still the best I’ve ever had.
My father introduces me to several suitable lasses in the hopes I’ll marry one of them. I don’t have the heart to tell him the odds are slim, that if I ever marry, she might very well be the furthest from these women, say a half Japanese, half Norwegian basketball player.
Back in Abuja, there will be a trip to the embassy to get a stamp in my passport. It will be stressful and there will be, as always, a good chance I am denied.
I think of Lagos. I’ve been writing a novel about Her – the City – for four years now. Her smell lingers in my nose hairs. Open gutters, grilled maize, Boli, street trash, frying meat, sweat, cheap perfume and exhaust smoke; sauteed together. The orchestral din of Her traffic rings in my ears in every moment. She doesn’t like it when I talk like this, all sentimental. She is impervious to my sentiment, to me. I never forget how easy it is for her to fuck me (or anyone really) up. I should go to her. I don’t.
Uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, nephews, family friends, school friends. I see as many as I can. Hand out the small gifts that are really apologies for the intimacy we once shared. We used to talk about anything. We ran round your father’s house shooting lizards with our catapults. We once slept side by side underneath a wicked senior’s bed in school. We were more than this and I am sorry.
The day comes. Packed food. Souvenirs for friends. Airport. Goodbye. Long Flight. Immigration. Back in the US of A. I am secretly glad.
Now, I am better than myself. I do not complain about work. I do not complain about money. I do not complain about writing. I do not complain. I am lucky. For a while. Then I am my feeble, scared self again. Unsure, insecure, unmoored. I am awake at four in the morning, staring into the gloom of my bedroom ceiling wondering who I used to be.
I am homesick.
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Sorry to hear you are homesick, I hope you do get to visit this year.
Thanks Amy, December hopefully.
An amazing post. I have to go back and reread it to savor it fully.
Why thank you, maam. It was very cathartic to write (and strangely kinda fun too).
This is beautiful writing, Mayowa. I want to read your novel about Lagos.
Thank you, sir! Glad you enjoyed it. Been following your posts about the new WIP, hope it goes well.
Hope writing that helped you feel better. I almost feel a little bit jealous. I have never really felt homesick, and I can’t help but think its probably a very healthy feeling. I think I question whether I would feel homesick at all.
It did, Becky. Thanks!
Mayowa, I finally am clearing my backlog and was able to read this beautiful piece. It is so evocative of a place. Great writing. It also informed me that you and I have in common that we are both the offspring of ministers.
Really glad you enjoyed it, Judy. My old man’s not a minister (although he occasionally preaches at our church), just super religious. I hope the editing goes well.
That was really, really good. It made me think I was traveling with you. It felt like watching the Travel Channel with a personal guide.
Glad you enjoyed it, Kim. Thanks for stopping by.
Mayo, you write with tenderness and insight. And drama! I hope you’ll always write, wherever you are.
Bonnie!!!!!!
How are you Bonnie? How’s your novel coming along How’s the rest of the group? Hope everyone’s fine.
I just realized I didn’t say goodbye before leaving (I’m in California now), I owe everyone an apology.
Thanks for stopping by and for saying such nice things about my writing.
Hey!
I was just about to write the same, awesome post again and your writing is so wonderful to read. I am wondering where you get it all from, and how you put it together…Have a goodie over there in California where I will be coming one of those days maybe and best wishes. =)
Thanks Katarina!
I wish I knew it where it came from so I could get more! Guess the thing i work hardest at is trusting what does come. I revise a lot and make edits but only when whats there feels wrong. If it feels right, then i leave it even if i think others may not like it.
How did you enjoy your trip to the US? Do come to California, first round’s on me!
May your words live eternal.
Lovely post! Very well written, Hope you did get to go home! There is certainly nowhere like Home!
Thanks! I did get to go home :)