It's been 10 years since my family and I boarded a plane to Nigeria to "discover our roots" and "get to know our culture." I remember my mind being open, not to the possibilities but to the finality of it all. No matter how much I pleaded or screamed, no matter how much I pouted, no matter how much I tried to reason with them, I was bound by their quest. And so hair beads gleamed, my hair swung and my eyes were wide. Life as I knew it was about to change, but how much? Was I ready?

The clash in cultures was just as brash as the heat that swallowed us whole as we landed in Murtala Muhammed International Airport, Lagos, Nigeria. My skin was used to the harsh winds of Boston and didn't know what to make of this smoldering heat that insisted on dominating my senses. But my skin survived the change in temperature, the power outages sponsored by NEPA (now known as the Power Holding Company of Nigeria) and the swimming cars and drivers desperately trying to fly away from traffic jams. It survived changes in family dynamics, the discovery of the necessary evils of househelps and drivers, fetching water in the richer part of town not because of poverty but because of the government and breaking the little laws like putting on your seatbelt. It survived the community feel, the "child of the whole village" mentality, the expected selflessness and generosity, the liveliness of its people, the big smiles and loud laughs, humor-filled suffering and loud, fervent prayers. It survived people; I cannot begin to explain the complexities, the depth of this survival. There were days in school when I felt helpless and had no one to turn to — not because the resources weren't there but because there hadn't been a need to even think of them in that light. Yet my skin managed to flick it off, although with a second thought or two. You see, survival was never the issue; my skin did not have the luxury to be lax about such. Rather, it was the feeling of being at home that even my tough skin could not crack.

What is home?

They say that it's where the heart is. So what if your heart is scattered across the globe? What if the distance created by oceans smashes the connection into smithereens? Or worse, what if you're in the same room with a piece of your heart but can barely hear it beat in sync with yours because the noise of turmoil and years of conflict reign supreme?

I always thought I loved Nigeria more than America because it was "home." To an extent, this is true. But I recently discovered that what made it home was not the country itself but rather the people in it. Pieces of my heart were sewn on their sleeves and I didn't even realize it. And recently, with life being life and change being constant, pieces of my heart are going through different phases. I myself am going through a new phase. So if these pieces travel away, emotionally or physically or both, where will home be? What will make me go back to Nigeria, my home? These are the questions that I have been forced to dwell on these days.

I discovered that before these pieces floated away, they were in me. And although the pieces have gone, the core is still in me. And I will be stuck with me for the rest of my life (whoopee!). So if home is where the heart is, that means that I can find a home even in the worst place in the world because I am home. I am bound to myself and myself alone because I cannot escape me, no matter how hard I try (and believe me, I have). So pieces of my heart can float around in the ocean, but rather than being the sole source of my homeliness, they are extensions, seeds, descendants. More or less, my home has several branches, and the headquarters is wherever I decide it will be.

I am homebound. I am home.

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Angel Okwuosa

Writing since December 2016 · 1 story contributed