Finding Home I

Home Sick

How to Get Back Home ?

I remember yesterday like yesterday, I was waving good bye to ene kum[1] at Murutala Mohammed international Airport, My father hid his disdain as best as he could, he gave me a stiff hug and whispered in my ear “I hope you are satisfied!” This is how he operated, using things like an embrace as a secret weapon to poke holes at my confidence and infuse doubt into a journey that was in itself a bit scary.  But I refused to let him win. I had had enough of him and all his passive aggressiveness, I knew this was all because he just wanted me married. Which is ironic considering he idolized women like Oprah Winfrey, Malala and even Kylie Jenner for their impact on humanity. Why was he so against me doing even greater than them? Anyways, this story is not about him. I am the main character, even though I have to acknowledge his influence and domineering nature because without it, I would be watering down the beauty of storytelling.

So let me tell you my story. Right now, the sparkle of the stars, the volume of silence and the whiff of freshly baked bread at 8pm keep me company in my cubicle upstairs. They have been my companions this last few months but I will soon stop boring them with my laments. As I sit here, I`m documenting these last nights in this journal I bought when I snuck out last night. A few weeks ago I noticed a late night market, one of the only ones that is not skin color sensitive and with the second to the last bundle of money I had saved, I went window shopping unsurprisingly i spent it all but stationaries have always had my Mumu button.

Day 1.

I am not sure how many days I will get to fill, but I promise myself that whatever happens I will mail this book to my mother. I must pacify her broken heart, even though this might break it even more. But what must be done must be done.  

My name is Onyawoibi, it means what have I done wrong, well depending on the pronunciation it can also mean “ a female child is a great child indeed”. When I was younger, I was constantly told that I was  an embodiment of the latter however, time has uncovered hard truths.

I am a 17 year old aspiring writer and lecturer, the only child of Mr and Mrs Oche, my eldest brother was still born, my other older brother died in a car crash during one of my fathers numerous trips to Egba Land where we are from. He was trying to get him accustomed to the people and language with hopes that he would be crowned king in a couple of years.  Two deaths left them with me, the girl child. My mother loves me beyond the length of the galaxies she always has, but my father…

After graduation, I decided to defer my admission to African Leadership University for a year, my goal was to explore, I had saved money for my travels but when I brought it down my father rejected the idea.

“ We have let you choose ALU over Yale and University of Toronto, you don’t get to make another foolish life choice.”  With a scoff

So I spent the first few months taking Harvard writing courses and working on a book on human failure to understand the heart of Education. It explored the undeniable imprint of indirect education that occurs in schools and even within families. The psychological effect of unanswered questions, body language and generally the emphasis on following strict course outlines.  

But this wasn't enough and after a few weeks I realized it could never be enough so in a  spontaneous bout, I bought a ticket to England. A trip I could only manage to afford because I did not need to pay for a visa seeing as I had an English passport. 

I remember the night I bought that ticket so vividly. I walked into my parents' room and smiled, at that time I could already taste the freedom on my tongue and it was intoxicating. I remember my mother raising her eyebrow because she could already tell I was up to “no good”

“I will be leaving for England in three months, it is a non- refundable ticket, I have accommodation with a host family and I already have a remote job to pay for my feeding and other expenses. So you have nothing to worry about.'' All this tumbled out of my mouth faster than my parents were prepared for. By the time they were ready to respond, I had already flashed the ticket in their direction and walked out before either  could say anything. And that was the beginning of my journey.

[1] My mother