I was born and largely bred in the commercial capital of my country, a state hundreds flock to daily in search of greener pastures. Although I had a fairly sheltered upbringing, my education, my fashion sense, my life was irrevocably formed by this city. It runs in my blood, through my veins.
My family moved to a smaller state, a more rural place. Not rural as in lacking electricity or basic amenities, but certainly less developed. I suffered a severe culture shock, starting with the drive to my new home when I gazed in wonder at a woman in full traditional wrappers and head-tie riding a motorcycle. In my new home, taxis were nonexistent, buses were few and far between, motorcycles were the main mode of transportation, and it was considered a great achievement to own a motorcycle. I swore I’d trek to the ends of the earth before that happened.
I consider Lagos to be my home, the land of my birth, always. I don’t think I could make a home, have a family in the place I’ve been for close to a decade. At the same time, I’m not sure I could once more be a permanent in this big city. The hustle and bustle, the endless din might be too much for me.
… And upon my return to the great city of my birth, I fell into a huge waist-high manhole and had to be hauled out by some young men. C’est la vie.
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