It had been 8 years. 8 years since I’d been home and I was finally here.

It almost felt too good to be true. I was giddy.

Even when the plane landed and all the Nigerian passengers stood up (when they’d been specifically instructed not to), I was still excited.

Home. Lagos.

The heat was the first thing I felt, my dri-fit Nigerian jersey couldn’t save me from the sheer intensity of it.

Dark and musty, Murtala Muhammed was nothing like I remembered. But it was home and I was happy to be back.

So much had changed and yet nothing had changed.

I finally linked up with my parents – my dad who I hadn’t seen in over 5 years and my mum who I hadn’t seen in over 3.

I felt the first wave of tears overtake me but I tucked them back in because “Mama ain’t raise no b*tch”.

The walk to the car park was long, dusty and quite claustrophobic but all I could think about was that I was finally home.

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Yoruba-Torontonian. Lover of music and most things tech. Avid reader, cook and writer

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