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.
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.