The Road to My Village- On Discovering Home in Nigeria

Our final city in Ethiopia was the ancient Islamic city of Harar, where we fed hyenas (see video below!) and met Alem. Alem checked on us every day while we were sick, and ultimately took me to the hospital. She stuck by us like an old friend though she had only known us a few days. When I felt better, we danced together in the street, laughing, doing a step she taught me, and I knew that our travels had gifted me with yet another sister.

At long last, it was time to go to Nigeria.

Have you ever dreamt of a place so much that it becomes hard to believe you have never been? That’s how I felt about Nigeria; the only thing is that the “never been” part isn’t exactly true. I was born there. My family left when I was a year old and I’d had a longing to visit as long as I could remember. It nagged me that I had a whole family there that I didn’t know. What is more, as of 2013 I had been to 5 European countries and still had not been to Nigeria. I could no longer reconcile that. Getting information from my parents about their life in Nigeria never gave me the detail I longed for. I know now that there is nothing my parents could have told me that could have prepared me for the experience of going and seeing for myself anyway.

In September, I contacted my uncle who we would stay with in the village. When I dialed his number I was anxious beyond belief. But when I heard his voice that sounded identical to my father’s, I felt a familiarity which told me that everything would be ok. He greeted me warmly and said, “Joy! I am standing here in your ancestral home!” That phrase, “ancestral home,” both made me raise an eyebrow and made my heart leap. What could that be like to know, and be a part of, your “ancestral home”? Did I actually have one? Is that silly to even contemplate?

On December 14^th, we left Addis Ababa and boarded a plane for Lagos, the city where I was born. I felt a serenity that I have felt only a few times in my life. As we waited to board, I wrote in a quick email to a friend: “It seems as if so many moments in my life have led to this one…” and I posted this picture on my social media:

When the plane finally touched down in Lagos, a feeling came over me that said, “I am home.”

And the record stops there.

All feelings of serenity/peace/violins playing came to a crashing halt as we entered the airport in Lagos.

We were greeted by the most disorganized mass I have seen outside of New York City, starting with a little mess that I like to call the “medical hustle.” The medical hustle is scrambling through a crowd of people to get a light shined at your forehead to check if you have a fever and to show your yellow fever certificate. Mat’s yellow fever certificate was deemed unacceptable and we were told we needed to pay a “fee” (read bribe for the airport worker) to be allowed to pass. We were nervous because we needed a connecting flight to Warri, my family’s hometown, and we needed to buy a ticket and board the next flight. Perhaps a bit unrealistic but we could only hope.

Hours of hassle later, we made it on the next flight to Warri. My heart was in my stomach. Would my family like me? Would they accept Mat?

But after being on the flight for a few hours, we were alerted that the plane was turning around and we were returning to Lagos! The weather was too bad to safely land in Warri. Delayed gratification!

The next morning after an agonizing 3 hour delay, our flight finally took off for Warri. When we arrived my uncle’s driver was waiting to take us to Ukpiovwen, the family village.

In the car, an employee of my uncle’s who was with the driver looked at me in surprise and said,

“So you don’t even know the road to your village?!”

“No,” I said. “I don’t know the road to my village.”

And he began to point out the road to me.

As we drove along, I was struck by the similarities between the long country roads of South Carolina, my home state in the US, and the road to the village in Warri. Paved roads wind into dirt roads and dirt roads become paved; wild vegetation all around; open fields; and small gardens that appear in the bush. It all seemed like home. I wondered about the union of my mother and father—2 people that seemed to be from different worlds (my mother from a small town in South Carolina, and my father from a small village in Nigeria), but in terms of landscape of origin, aren’t so different at all. The earth has many stories to tell.

When I walked into my uncle’s home and saw my aunt, I fell to my knees and exclaimed Migwo! (Urhobo greeting of respect for elders) as she pulled me up and hugged me.

She said, “I am so happy you are here. I am happy you came home.”

In the days that followed, we met all of my uncle and aunt’s children (and spoke to the eldest who lives in the states), my cousins who soon began to feel like my brothers and sisters. We played cards, had many conversations, and shared lots of laughter. We also met a host of uncles, aunts, and other cousins, and had one of the best Christmases of my life.

On Christmas Eve, it was warm enough to grill outside and shoot fireworks! It felt like the 4^th of July. We danced on the lawn, learned some of the latest moves in Nigeria, and had a good time at each other’s moved.

Some of the most meaningful times I had in my family’s village were the conversations I shared with my cousins, aunt, and uncle. I learned more about my family’s history, how to cook a few dishes (including our native banga soup!), and heard stories from my father’s childhood. It was easy to feel at home.

I cried buckets when it was time to leave. We were hugged so tight by my aunt, and I missed them almost immediately. I couldn’t believe that so many years had gone by without my ever knowing my family.

We left Warri to spend New Year’s Eve in Lagos at The New Africa Shrine, the old club of legendary Fela Kuti, and listen to some live music. When we showed up on New Year’s Eve, we found that the band was on vacation for the next 3 weeks! Not exactly how I imagined New Year’s. We had to pass the week in Lagos waiting for the Beninese embassy to open so Mat could get a visa for Benin, the next country on our itinerary.

But our week in Lagos had its rewards. We visited the famous Jazz Hole and spent hours talking to the couple who owns it. I found books to keep me occupied for hours. At my family’s house in Warri, I finished Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s collection of short stories, The Thing Around Your Neck. I had now read all of her books. In the days that followed, I read Chinua Achebe’s personal account of the Biafran war, There Was a Country. Finding a book to follow that would be hard! Besides my awesome travel partner, a guy who I can always find something to talk about with, books have been my constant companions through this journey. It was awesome to find that in my uncle and aunt’s home, they had Purple Hibiscus (which I read there), and other books by Adichie. In Lagos, we also visited Terra Kulture, where I had more “bonding time” with my current literary idol.

As expected, Lagos was a hard city to navigate. With 25 million people, it makes NYC look like child’s play. But soon we got used to negotiating prices on kekes (3 wheeled tuc tucs), and figuring out our way through the city on the public minivan taxis. In restaurants, we got used to people being surprised that Mat eats Nigerian food and sometimes rudely assuming that he doesn’t know what he’s ordering.

I remembered my aunt’s words to me if I ever had problems in Lagos: “Remember you are African!” I laughed when she said it, but her advice came in handy many times. Mat continued to amaze me with his unquantifiable ability to adapt and negotiate. After Lagos, I knew that we could make it anywhere.

And unexpectedly, one evening sitting in a crowded mini-van taxi stuck in rush hour traffic for upwards of 2 hours, I watched the sun set on the legendary city of Africa and found a place in my heart for the city of my birth. I have a thing with cities: they always find a way deep into my bones and I fall in love with them despite the hours of hassle, the inevitable exhaustion, and the countless scrapes I suffer. Lagos was no different.

And that evening on the public taxi, Mat and I jumped out in the traffic and decided to walk the rest of the way home.

Silly shots with some of the cousins

My aunt laughing her laugh in front of her home in Ukpiovwen

Mat happily sitting down to a plate of egusi and amala

In front of my uncle and aunt’s house in outfits designed by cousin Esiri

A house opening ceremony for a family member

On our way to Calabar. With cousins Ekpuvie and Omamerhi.

My grandfather’s compound in the village

With Chimamanda at Terra Kulture

Pepper soup and boiled yams at Terra Kulture

With a couchsurfer friend in Lagos

At Kalakuta Museum, the last home of Fela Kuti

Good food for thought. At Kalakuta.

A processional outside the Oba’s palace in Benin City