The late departure on an early evening
of a lone traveller from a city filthy.
His bags on his back and sandals on
his feet, he is determined that from this city he must flee.
He doesn’t stop to say goodbye, or take
in one last look. On and forward he strides.
His ears are not seduced by the sounds
rising high, of people in the throes of incest by a burning fire.
His eyes are not lured by the show of
flesh by loose women as they peddle their wares,
or fooled by the illusionists as they perform their sleight of hand tricks.
He quickens his steps and hastens his
departure away from the crime, from a
city riddled with gutters and grime.
For the love of this city, so much blood had he spilled.
For his devotion to this town, he had slain many a man.
And in return for his love and devotion, this city had given
him endless pain and toyed with his emotions. Shattered his dreams and wounded his pride.
His heart is now hardened against this perverted town, as
he trudges on forever forward bound.
Home has been described by many different people as many different
things. Some say it’s a place, others say it’s a feeling. The most popular of
the home descriptions says it’s where the heart is, so maybe it’s even a
person. For me home is:
Where the food is familiar. It is walking into a restaurant , ordering
and knowing exactly what to expect. Home is where beef, tripe, mutton, fish
and periwinkles swim together in the same pot of delicious soup. Home is
where everything is sweet; sweet moimoi, sweet corn, sweet bread, sweet
noodles, sweet bitter leaf soup.
Where the language is familiar. It is saying a thing and not having to
explain what it means. It is the land of aje butters and aje kpakos. It is the
land of yimu and badt guys. It is the land of biko, kilode, sannu, doh!
Where the dressing is familiar. It is the land of lace blouses and oleku
wrappers. It is the land of Ankara tops and skinny jeans. It is the land of
embroidered gowns, kaftans and sokotos. It is the land of hulas, filas, okpus,
and atakalas. Home is going to a wedding in a dress made from the same
fabric as half the guests there; asheobi.
Home is where the people are familiar. It is the place where you hear
“neighbor, you don wake?” the second you step outside your house. It is
where someone is an uncle or aunty just for being from the same village as you.
Home may be a lot of things to a lot of people, but for me home is Naija.
There are no words that can adequately describe what I feel for you;
love, respect, awe. They are all too small.
There are no words that can describe who you are to me; my father,
my friend, my saviour. You are a lot more.
There are no words to explain what you do for me; favours, miracles,
and blessings. They are much more.
There are no words to describe how I feel with you; safe, treasured,
protected. Oh but it’s so much more.
There are no words to describe the works of your hand;
beautiful, wonderful, amazing. Understatements.
There are no words to describe your love for me; perfect,
unconditional, never ending. It is much more.
There are no words big enough to express my gratitude to you so
I hope you understand when I just say Thank You.