Home

I have been on a long writing hiatus. No reasons, actually, but I am sure laziness in getting thoughts out of my head has to be one

I thought long and hard about what to write, and with none forthcoming, it led me to my archives.

Let's talk about Home.

For me, Home is my mummy buying agbalumo from the market almost all the time in January and us judging the woman for her evil deeds when she sells agbalumo that slaps your cheek.

Home is my siblings visiting different houses in our community to pick fruits in different varieties—cashew in January and February, mango from March until late April avocado, and oranges in their respective seasons.

They bring the fruits in a sack, our faces beaming with joy at the arrival of the sojourner. Later, the veranda is filled with everyone sucking, eating, or licking. Pawpaw grows in our compound like a disease. On some days, you just meet them sliced on the table with no one touching it. Soursop fruit, almost a menace in the compound.

Home is me going to my friend's house to sew during the day. It's me carrying different fabrics I want to put together.

It's me teasing my friend, as she shares all the gists with me—we talk about different topics ranging from Paul's journey as a missionary, Adam and Eve’s sin or an Instagram trend.

We playfully criticize our schools, or give praises to them. Home is me complaining about Lagos' pollution and traffic to my friend, who listens with rapt attention.

Home is me asking my friend if any coconut has fallen from the coconut tree in the backyard, and if it has, I take it home triumphantly because my parents will be so happy.

Home is my mom bringing Ankara from church because the host has inawo to do and it won't be good not to show up.

Home is me crouching on the floor to cut my fabric because it's more comfortable. My constant screams at my family members who made my fabric scissors blunt by using it to cut paper.

Home is me sewing in the middle of the night with ears plugged, with no care about who is being

disturbed by the sounds.

Home is my daddy always threatening to kill my mum's big fowl. Home is me smiling at my dad so he could give me money to buy bread.

Home is me shouting at my siblings to stop leaving their school bags in the sitting room, and sure, it has become an anthem I play every day upon their return from school. It is also my siblings telling me they are tired of me and asking for my school's resumption date.

Home is my mom calling me aside to give me bread or yoghurt in secret, and of course, the coconut-laced yoghurt is sweeter when my siblings don't know about it.

Home is me judging everyone in the house and apologizing later when it was a misconception.

Home is the same dishes I have always known, slight deviation when my mom decides to try out a new dish, we praise the new dish, then completely forget to incorporate it into our regular diet—bye-bye dish, till the next 30 market days.

Home is me receiving unsolicited premium gist about every extended family member, community folks, and lots more. Home is my family.

Other times, home isn't just my family other times it's friends, it's moments, it's sisters and brothers, it's coursemates, roommates, environment, and situations. The stomach wrenching laughter's, the silly jests and unending gists. Late night chats on excitement about life.

However, I have come to realize that home is fellowship with the Holy Ghost. It is a journey to God. Home is that place you find peace, that place you know deep down you are supposed to be.

Remember, home doesn't have to be perfect because more often than not, it is not perfect, and that's perfectly fine.

While home can be anywhere, there's no place more perfect than the home found in God, the Holy Spirit, and fellowship in Him

So build your home today through friendships, fellowship, and living for God in the days of your youth.

Lastly, remember, on this journey, we are just walking each other home.

If you enjoyed this letter do share with your friends and leave a comment. Bye! Till next time.