I returned to Nigeria in Oct 2004 after a 10-year sojourn to the United States and the United Kingdom. I had graduated from Queens College, Lagos in June 1993 and finally left Nigeria in 1995, after waiting almost 2 years for the lecturers at the University of Lagos to call off their seemingly everlasting strike. I ended up at the University of Houston where I majored in Communications & Marketing. After I graduated from U of H 4 years later, I got a job with an advertising agency in Boston where I worked for the next three years or so. I enjoyed my job but was not exactly thrilled with it. The best I could say was “it paid the bills.” So when I got laid-off in the aftermath of Sept 11, I was not particularly crushed. I had known for a while that I was tired of life in the States but like a fly trapped in a locked car, I could not think of a way out. Naturally I was sad to lose my job but I soon realized that it provided the exit plan that I was subconsciously seeking.
I decided to move back home and began making plans to that effect. I even got a decent job offer from a reputable Nigerian company. However I developed cold feet and decided to move to England instead. To my mind, England was half-way between the States and Nigeria, a sort of pit-stop on the way to my eventual destination. I spent 2 years cooling my heels at this stop, albeit under the pretext of obtaining my Masters degree. Eventually, I felt the right time had finally come. I had completed my studies, but more importantly I really and truly had no interest whatsoever in continuing my stay in another man’s land. I wanted to go home. And once I made up my mind, there was no going back. I handed in my notice at work and paid for a one-way ticket to Murtala Mohammed Airport, Lagos. Several people tried to talk me out of my decision with well-intentioned and rational arguments: don’t you think you should at least get a job offer before you move back home? Nigeria is not the kind of place you just go without a plan. Have you got any savings? What about your life here in London? Even my father expressed his reservations: It’s already October, why don’t you just wait until December and come home with your siblings for the holidays. At least then you can test the waters before jumping in feet first… But there was no changing my mind. I had purchased a ticket for the 20th of October and I was determined that the 21st of October would not find me in cold, dreary London. I had had enough. It was time to go home & go home I did.
Four months later, I am still fielding questions as to why I decided to return home. I find the inquisitions odd and mildly irritating. Why should anyone have to justify their decision to return to the land of their birth? They should be asking all those Nigerians who are still abroad why they have chosen to abandon their homeland and live as second-class citizens in a foreign country. But maybe that’s not entirely fair. Everyone has their reasons for whatever it is they choose to do and we all have to what’s best for us. I did what was best for me by coming home when I did and I have had no regrets whatsoever. Yes, Nigeria is hard. And I am still adjusting physically, emotionally, mentally & even spiritually to life in this peculiar and extraordinary country. After 10 years away, I realize that I do not think like most Nigerians. I see and hear things everyday that assault my senses and sometimes I wonder if the whole country has gone mad, or if it’s just me. I fail to understand why our leaders cannot seem to see that our spasmodic power supply is a thing of shame before the world. I wonder at a country where there are so many churches yet the moral fiber of the society continues to disintegrate at an alarming rate. Corruption is rife, people are mean and downright wicked to each other, fidelity means nothing and you are judged by nothing more than the clothes you wear & the car you drive. Yet the churches are packed full every Sunday and on every corner there is a crusade inviting the masses to meet with the genie, sorry the God, who performs miracles on command. It’s all so disillusioning. I’m also frustrated by the sometimes antiquated attitudes I encounter with those who should otherwise know better. I seethe every time I see a job advert in the paper announcing a vacancy that can only be filled by a male or stating that only beautiful, tall women need apply. When I complain about these things to my friends, they simply laugh and say silly things like, “Ah Kemi, you’ve just come. Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it.” I hope I never get used to such nonsense.
All in all though, I’m glad to be home. It’s nice to be among my own people, in a place where I don’t have to engage in such tiresome, inane conversations as, “What’s your name? Kemi. Oh, that’s such a pree-tty name – does it mean anything?” It’s nice to be able to chat with my colleagues at work without having to form my words into some incomprehensible mumbo-jumbo - otherwise known as fonetics! – in order to make myself understood. And it’s especially nice to know that should the urge seize me one fine day, I can actually run for President, because guess what, this is MY country. Ah yes, it’s good to be home!
