18 May 2019, the plane landed at 4:47pm. I couldn’t help but think to myself, this is it, the journey you’ve been reluctant to make after all these years. Are you just going to sit there, stare aimlessly and pretend that you’ve not arrived at your destination? Visiting my country of birth after eleven years of absence was not only surreal, it was filled with mixed and indescribable feelings. Self-imposed exile? No, my parents merely sought greener pastures. Yes, there was the joy of seeing family and friends again, but I didn’t know what to make of my country and its current state. I am scared to call it home because it has never experienced tranquility. Its meaning to me is blurry and sometimes bleak. 

Walking into Murtala Muhammed international airport, the interiors had a combined fetor of rot, sweaty skins and musty air, which brought back suppressed memories of the frustrations of dysfunction, and the sight of anguish on the faces of Nigerians. The customs officer who heavily scrutinised my passport stared at me suspiciously for about a minute and a half as if I was a contraband of some sort. I stared back in silence, trying to make meaning of his facial expressions and eye contact with his other colleague. Retrieving my luggage, I unconsciously shifted into a gamer’s state of mind. Never appear timid, acquire bags, walk straight, fast paces, treat persuasive vendors and unregistered taxi services as enemies and obstacles, find target, meet target, exit location. Target in this instance, being my childhood friend I had not seen in fifteen years

Target located. Leaving the airport, I felt like a young lamb thrown into a lion’s den. The heat was intolerable, my mental picture of the airport’s layout was not what it turned out to be. There were drastic disheartening changes and I was unprepared for them. Bemused, my bags felt heavier, and my last ounce of motivation to come home began to wane. There it was again, the hopelessness on the faces of onlookers and street hustlers. On their faces was the same silent anguish and secret gnashing of teeth I saw years ago. I could feel their lament. Their expressions and body languages seemed to communicate the fact that, they are at the exit of suffering, but never for once, not in this life, will they be in one of those planes flying over their heads. They watch in dismay as all kinds of travellers come and go, not because they don’t want to leave, they just don’t have the means. Seeing my childhood friend again for the first time in fifteen years rekindled my joy and excitement of returning, but the faces of the onlookers at the airport lingered in my memory for the rest of my visit. We got a taxi and drove into the city. 

“I doubt the fuel in my car is enough to get you to your hotel oga” the taxi driver said. 

“Maybe if I can get some money from you to stop along the way and top up, then it can make the full journey sir” 

“Sir just drive, I’m sure the fuel will be enough don’t worry” my friend responded. 

This was how I escaped my first experience of being taken advantage of, thanks to my friend. Of course we made the journey to the hotel without stopping to refuel the car. My second experience was out of sympathy for the other party involved; out of pity, I gave him the money he cunningly tried to have from me. He has kids to feed, I thought.

Lagos – the London of Africa and a tale of two cities, you’re either rich or poor. Being middle class is non-existent or only applies within certain contexts and circles. I wasn’t shocked to notice how the city and its people are money driven and passionate to unapologetically flaunt it. After all, London is not so different; its flaunty attitude is hidden in plain sight and only open to individuals with access. It is said that everyone in Lagos has a story to tell. From the half dead man by the roadside (not sidewalk, it doesn’t exist) and the taxi driver (who is most likely a graduate), to the homeless eight year old whose unkempt skin is as a result of uncompleted dusty roads, the intense heat and lack of clean water to shower. 

On observation, is the heightened commonality of individualism which is boldly written in the city’s form and apparent in the design and architecture of most buildings; some pompous, others obtuse, the quiet and dull ones ooze poverty. I also noticed the huge billboards that brightly lights up at night, portraying toothpaste and bank adverts, while the rest of the neighbourhood is swallowed up in thick darkness. These billboards are usually a beacon of hope for some in these kind of communities. Under it, you will find local socialites, partial drunks, noisy vendors who passionately sell their goods and the enthusiastic football fans who watch the game on communal TVs. The fortunate residents who can afford generators look to these for power supply, while the not so fortunate ones sleep to the unending sound of multitudes of generators and thick clouds of carbon monoxide. 

Returnees, they call individuals like myself. These are members of the Nigerian diaspora visiting for the first time, or those who left the shores of the country for a long time and are finally coming back to settle down. For reasons which seem odd to me, they are sometimes perceived as the future of Nigeria, treated like first class citizens and unconsciously worshipped because of their international experiences, degrees and accents. The locals can spot a returnee at first glance, regardless of their forms of disguise or toning down of accent. First, they notice the glistening of a returnee’s skin, their apparels then their well-kept bodies. “Oga you look fresh o” they would comment. If this was said to a returnee in any kind of setting that requires an exchange of money for goods and services, the returnee’s response will be a yardstick to measure assertiveness, attitude, character, and spending power. If the returnee appears oblivious and naive, the possibility that he/she would be cheated or taken advantage of is high.

Presently, there is a large influx of returnees, mostly millennials, who are coming back to make something of their lives (because they know they might get first class treatment), some appear because they are merely patriots, and there are those who just show up due to the unfriendly European weather and their reluctancy to participate in the Western rat race, but you rarely find them in other parts of Nigeria. They would rather camp in some of the most civilised parts of Lagos or Abuja and live their best lives. However, this returnee did not go back to stay or  to flaunt his international experiences in Lagos, but to…

But to what? Why did you have to come back like a thief in the night? I asked myself. There were speculative reasons by friends and family as to my return, but I wasn’t bothered by their opinions or speculations. I went back to conquer bleak thoughts, reconnect with family and remind myself about a lot of things, after few years of carrying around a strange feeling of being disembodied and the thought of not having the audacity to call my country of birth home. Home is a place of rest, a space or sphere where multitude of voices and opinions can peacefully co-exist without calls for war or segregation. Home should comfort and not terrify, it should also serve as a safe space where one’s humanity isn’t mocked, demonised or threatened. For me, home did not posses these qualities. It presented itself as unfriendly, hostile and not a home. But I had to go back regardless. After four days of experiencing the beauty and chaos of Lagos, it was down and out in Ibadan - the largest city in West Africa. 

Ibadan, famous for its rusty brown roofs and calm, is less daunting and slower than Lagos. The city was initially designed by some of Nigeria’s first generation nationalists to be one of the first modern city in Africa, hence it been home to the first skyscraper and TV station in West Africa. Overtime, that dream died alongside many first fruits of the country’s independence. Ibadan is familiar territory, having schooled there for few years and made some friends. Unlike Lagos, the massive changes spared the city’s form, it is still recognisable and navigating it was not as difficult as I thought.

The once crawling city is starting to walk, there are traces of foreign investments and it no longer subscribed to its previous labels of dump, swamp and a city of local champions. It smelt of potential and in someway, it wants to entirely reinvent and differentiate itself from Lagos, Abuja and Port Harcourt. The nightlife is brighter and extends longer, the city’s youths, those who chose to stay, appeared less naïve and more entrepreneurial, and those who left seemed to have had enough of it. Nevertheless, most want to flaunt ‘this money’ as they call it. They speak of money as though it is a wild beast of some sort that must be tamed by any means necessary. For some, turning to the music scene or investing all their life savings into getting a Canadian visa seems to the the sensible way out of poverty, for those living below minimum wage and the less entrepreneurial, they either blame fate, live by faith or look to the exploration of vices (kidnappings and drug trafficking) as a medium. 

Presently, the national plague among its youths on the quest for money is the yahoo plus plus phenomenon – a graduation from internet fraud and ponzi schemes to the ghastly killing and mutilating of random Nigerian citizens for organ harvesting and money rituals, which the assailants believe will make them instant millionaires. There are numerous cases that instantly evokes uncontrollable tears and heartbreak. The most appalling part of it all, is the desensitised approach to which the locals deal with it. A lot of its response is wailing, empty promises from police officers to apprehend the assailants, to massive indecent front page coverages accompanied by daft headlines. However, it does not stop the party planned for the next day from happening.  

In the hot afternoon of 23rd May 2019, myself and two friends flung open the rusty gates of Bowers Tower, located on the peak of Oke-Are, the highest point in Ibadan, and one of the last remnants of British colonial establishments. They are scattered everywhere, in various parts of the city, but unmaintained and defunct. I vividly remember having a picnic here with my parents and siblings nineteen years ago, when the grasses were green, the flowers blossomed and the colours bright. Presently, the traits of the city has consumed the establishment and its surroundings, leaving it in an abysmal state. For some, this is a final act of triumph against colonial rule, but from the lens of an historian, this is a fundamental part of Nigerian history that is intentionally untaught, with the aim of blotting out its reason for existence from the minds of Nigerians. This deliberate negligence and inattention to detail is a sore on the country, that has been left untreated for a long time and is now gangrene. Its collective memory is starting to fade off, most of its youths have altered or no version of the past. 

Climbing the tower and having an unobstructed three sixty degree view of Ibadan was therapeutic. The refreshing air above street level got me randomly questioning the city, pondering on when the brown roofs will cease to exist and what the future holds for the city’s frustrated youths. But Ibadan, you and your brown roofs still haven’t revealed to us who killed Bola Ige, and why that intersection at Ring-Road kept drinking the blood of innocent Nigerians, particularly that of those four young kids who were trying to get home to their parents.

Our laughter and noises of catching up on lost years echoed throughout the premises, as we were the only visitors on sight. We spoke of the past, present and future. We spoke of our times together in boarding school, we spoke of reasons for our nicknames and their effects, we spoke of our other friends and their achievements. We spoke of causes, effects and consequences. My friends presence, the conversations and sunshine briefly made me forget about my country’s current state and issues that plagued it. There was a gentle breeze and then a wave of silence. In that moment, we each in our own way came to the realisation that our friendship of eighteen years is a matured teenager who is eager to explore adulthood and embrace positive change. 

Dismounting the tower and exiting the premises was a trip into the undeveloped and most economically deprived parts of the city, agbole (slums) they call them. However rich in history, it houses the ancestral family homes and clans of some Ibadan indigenes who have migrated to other parts of the city, country and beyond the land. Although some family members still inhabit these parts as an inheritance, the obligation to preserve family history or the circumstance of having nowhere else to go, has made them stay put. These dilapidating ancestral family houses also serve as ancient landmarks for lost and unborn Ibadan indigenes who might want to familiarise themselves with family history. ‘Remember the son of whom you are’-  a famous Yoruba adage, is not only spoken in abstract but can be pointed at in brick if the lost decided to return to familiarise themselves with history or ascend to a position of influence. 

As we descended from the tower, we became the centre of attention, particularly myself. I could read the expressions and messages on the faces of some of the locals, they could tell I was a returnee and not from the area. It was apparent, despite my idea of a ‘humble dress code’ - a white t-shirt, blue shorts and subtle black trainers. The numerous WhatsApp videos and stories of returnees being kidnaped or killed in such areas flooded my mind. I got security conscious and the eagerness to leave grew stronger. We hastily walked towards the taxi stand, paid a driver three times the normal fare and drove off.

Navigating Nigeria, I chose to do by a private car, taxis and occasionally public transport for the sakes of observation, briefly experiencing what life is like for the locals and eavesdropping on their stories and conversations. A bulk of it remains unchanged. Their stories and conversations mainly included themes of lamentation and a corrupt government as it did years ago. It has somehow become the narrative of the average Nigerian, so much that the thought or mention of optimism is laughed at, followed by insults masked with humour on the individual who dares to mention a better Nigeria. For other countries, there is the sense of national pride, not only does my country lack such, it is suffering from the aftermaths of colonialism, an unaddressed civil war and military dictatorships, while simultaneously going through present agonies of terrorism, extreme corruption and uncertainty. Religion used to be its opium, however this is no longer the case. The churches and mosques are now businesses, with their priests (who claim to hear God) manifesting psychotic behaviours. The plummeting mental state of its future and supposed leaders of tomorrow is seeing them turn to drugs and intense substance abuse to escape the harsh reality. Those who cannot watch themselves become slaves to tramadol, codeine, oxycontin and the likes, hang a noose around their neck and kick the chair.

In the spirit of visitation, reminding myself and reconnecting with my country, I found myself en-route to Ondo state, where my parents were born and raised. I was met with hugs, joyful songs and delicious cuisines I had yearned for these past years. Seeing both grand-mothers and other family members again, including cousins who were non-existent before my departure was elating. This kind of reconnection expands the capacity of the heart and sieves away impurities from the mind. At random moments, my tear ducts would freely express my joy and happiness. I was able to reestablish values and further understand the source of my some of character and traits. Akure, Ore, Owo and Idanre were my four areas of focus within Ondo State. In the first three, dwelled extended family members, some of who participated in my nurturing and care during my early years and at Idanre was a great aunt who is one of the queens in the king’s palace. I had not seen her since I was a child. Idanre beckoned and I happily heeded its call. 

The mystifying and undulating mountains of Idanre joyfully welcomed me with its ancient arms wide open to receive long a gone son. With the guidance of an aunt, I walked into the palace like I was entitled to its blessings. It was neither grand nor undignified but it commanded respect. From the architecture and positioning of the buildings, the palace grounds appeared not to have been given proper thought. This correlated with the story my mother told me. Years ago, the whole village used to live up in the mountains. However, population growth allowed for the idea of relocating into the valleys which is now modern Idanre. ‘If you climbed up to the highest parts of the mountains, you will see the old Idanre as it used to be, the streets and old palace are still intact’ my mum would say. And it is still intact, according to the tour guides. Of stories, parts of the mountains is said to be sacred and not to the touched by the unsanctified, who have to first undergo a sanctification ritual. There is a famous tale of a footprint etched in rock that can fit any foot on earth and that of men, women and children using parts of the mountain as refuge in times of war, only for the mountain to swallow them up and not spit them back out into daylight. According to hearsay, you can still hear their noises, cries and busyness. 

In our conversation, the queen (my great aunt) lamented about the lack of funding from the government. She doesn’t think the city and its distinctiveness are well publicised, she felt more could be done if the funds were enough. Taking her seat with some of the other queens in the courtyard was like returning back to routine – boredom and bits of chores to keep their bones agile. I could tell from their countenance that they wanted to tell the stories of Idanre to its long gone children, but not many of them come around. “You should come back again and bring your friends from overseas along” She said with a soft smile. I added it to my bucket-list of things to do before I turn a certain age. I could not pay homage to the king because he was unavailable. The sun stood sharp and bright in the sky and I could not climb the mountains because there were no human guides to take me on a private tour. I stayed for another hour to explore the palace grounds, took some pictures and headed back out on the only road that leads in and out of Idanre. 

As my journey neared its end, I made my way back to Ibadan, stayed there for two more days, saw few friends and drove off Lagos to catch my flight for London. I had a feeling of accomplishment and gratitude as the plane came to a halt at Heathrow at 5:07am. The air definitely smelt different. Walking past the immigration desk like I did for the first time eleven years ago, I felt empowered. The sense of feeling disembodied was totally forgotten and seemed to be replaced by a sense of purpose and increased mental strength.

Of national pride and country, my visit geared the bleak thoughts and speculations of calling my country home, towards reintroduction, re-evaluation and optimism. This hope, I’d like to believe, is a shared feeling or perhaps a gift to me from outliers and nonconformists I mingled with during my visit, who in the face of chaos and uncertainty, unconditionally have their hearts beat of patriotism and love for country. 

John Coltrane’s My Favourite Things played in my headphones as I got in the cab heading to my parent’s house. Driving through the rainy streets of London after almost three weeks off, my mind drifted back to the onlookers and hustlers at Murtala Muhammed international airport. I wondered how they survive in the wild.