Coming Home Hits Different

After nearly 11 years in the diaspora, I came back to Nigeria—and nothing could have prepared me for the re-entry. This episode is not a recap. It’s a re-immersion.

From the 5am chicken alarms to inverter sounds that spark joy… from the unbearable heat to generator choruses, wedding joy to security fears, farm-to-table sweetness to pothole trauma—this is my real-time, sensory, emotional return.

But it’s more than culture shock. It’s a spiritual reawakening.
 A nervous system reboot.
 A conversation with guilt, joy, memory, and faith.
 This is for anyone living in-between—between nations, identities, or seasons.

Because sometimes, coming home isn’t about comfort.
 It’s about clarity.
 And sometimes, the place that overwhelms you is also the place that heals you.

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Transcript

There are things you can’t prepare for.

Like how a screaming chicken at 5:00 AM becomes your alarm clock.
 Or how the air here smells like smoke, rain, earth—and something else you can’t quite name.

You can’t pack for that.
 You can’t schedule it.
 You just have to be here.

And I’m here.
 Back in Nigeria after almost 11 years of living outside of it.

Not as a tourist.
 Not as the child of someone else’s homecoming.
 But as me.
 An adult.

A woman who has carried grief, calling, worship, and waiting into every space she’s entered.
 A woman who lived in the diaspora long enough to build a life,
 but not long enough to forget what home smells like.

I thought I was prepared.
 But nobody tells you how jarring it is to feel your nervous system adjusting
 to the very environment that once raised you.

The overstimulation is real.

Music blasting at 7:00 AM from the neighbor’s compound.
 Clanging metal bowls.
 Yelling.
 Laughter.
 The smell of suya and fried akara from a roadside stall.

Your body remembers—
 but it also resists.

Canada was quiet.
 Too quiet.
 Polite. Predictable.

And while I sometimes hated that politeness,
 being here again made me realize just how much my body had adapted to silence.

Here, even silence has a pulse.
 And that pulse is alive.

Let’s not even talk about the heat.
 Oh my God.
 The heat will force the life out of you.

Not the oh-it’s-warm-today kind of heat.
No.
This is the kind of heat that makes you question your life choices.

The kind of heat that feels like someone left the gate of hellfire open.
 Please—whoever opened it, go back and close it.

I used to laugh when I saw that meme.
 Now? I’m not laughing.
 Please, I beg you.

It’s worse at night.
 No power.
 The inverter didn’t fully charge.
 The generator won’t start.
 And there you are—lying on your back in the dark,
 sweating like a criminal, wondering, Who sent me?

The heat wraps itself around your neck.
 It sits on your chest.
 Like it’s daring you to sleep.

Suddenly, every fan you ever complained about in Canada becomes a fond memory.

This heat will humble you.

When I first got back, they had to add batteries to the inverter.
 I was sleeping with the AC on, ceiling fan on, and a solar fan as backup.
 Still, I was breaking out in heat rashes.

My mom asked, “Don’t you have heat in Canada?”
 I said, “We do. But there's light.
 There’s AC in the car. AC in the building. There’s power.”

Here, there’s no guarantee.
 We do the needful.
 We adjust.

And oh—potholes?
 Forget it.
 They don’t just inconvenience you—
 they try to rearrange your spine.

You’re minding your business, then BAM—
 your chest hits the dashboard and the driver says,
 “Ah, no worry. Na small one be that.”

You laugh—
 but you’re not okay.

And then there’s the spiritual atmosphere.
 It’s loud.
 You don’t just feel presence here—
 you feel pressure.

You wake up sensing things.
Even your dreams carry weight.

There’s a spiritual density here that won’t let you coast.
 You have to pray different.
 You have to discern different.

It feels like heaven is closer.
 But so is warfare.

It’s wild.
 Sometimes, I’m about to record a podcast,
 and it feels like I’m fighting battles—
 spiritual and physical.

Cows mooing in the background.
 Noise pollution everywhere.

Oh—and that sound the inverter makes when power returns?
 That weeeeee—and suddenly, everyone exhales, “Thank You, Jesus.”
But you can’t praise NEPA too much,
or they’ll take the light back.

It’s the subtle joys for me.
 Because the fuel has run low.
 The fans haven’t blown in hours.
 You’ve been sweating and praying.

Then the generator chorus starts.
 Every street has its own harmony.
 Some high-pitched. Some coughing.
 Some sound like they’ve been alive since 1966.

When the light finally comes back,
 you feel the air pass through your pores.
 Relief.

And you’re paying for that light.
But somehow, Nigeria makes you appreciate even what you paid for.

Water?
 You dig your own borehole.
 Pray it doesn’t run dry.
 Manage it.
 Thank God for buckets.
 Because even showers are a luxury.

I'm laughing, but I’m also aware of the privilege I hold.
 It’s sobering to look around and realize—
 this country is 64 years old.
 Still learning how to walk.

But it’s not all struggle.

Nigeria knows how to celebrate.
 Weddings. Birthdays. Naming ceremonies.
 There’s always an owambe.

But my mom said something the other day—
 “There aren’t as many weddings anymore.”
 The economy is affecting joy.

There are still celebrations,
 but the way people move is different.
 More gated entries.
 More caution.
 Fewer kids playing outside.

Fear has reshaped joy.
 It hasn’t killed it,
 but it has changed its volume.

And somewhere in the joy and the dust, there’s guilt.
 Not loud. Not paralyzing.
 But present.

The kind that whispers:
 “You’ve been gone too long.”
 “You’ve changed.”
 “You don’t belong the way you used to.”

And I know it’s not all true—
 but it sits in the room with me.

Even in the laughter.
 Even in the mango-sickness joy of farm-to-table.

My mom has a farm—
 kale, broccoli, cauliflower, cabbage, black magic kale, eggplants.
 She grows it all.

We’ve got chickens, rabbits, fish.
 The only thing we’re missing is a cow.

It’s beautiful.
 Privileged.
 And I’m grateful.

Nigeria chicken?
 Undefeated.
 Canada could never.
 It carries authority.

Beef is cheaper here too.
 Slight wins.

But suya is 500 naira for one stick now.
 Everything is expensive.

I miss the old times.

I went out the other day with a friend.
 We stopped to buy plantain.
 True Nigerian man—he started bargaining.
 I sat in the car watching.
 Then he turned and said,
 “Oya enter the car, you’re spoiling my market!”

I laughed from my chest.

The art of bargaining?
 I’ve lost it.
 The diaspora softened some edges.
 Sharpened others.

Everything here is loud.
 Everything is raw.
 You feel it in your body.

The heat clings.
 The potholes shake more than your car—
 they shake your intestines.

One ride made me throw up.
 No joke.

But even then—head out the window, trying to breathe—
 I thought, This life is messy. Inconvenient. But real.

And there’s joy.
 Joy in seeing family.
 In laughing over nothing.
 In hearing your name said with familiarity.
 In barefoot children running through the compound.

There’s something healing in the chaos.
 Like your soul can breathe deeper—
even when your mind is overstimulated.

Coming back makes me question everything.

In Canada, I was always trying to systemize.
 Plan.
 Be the responsible immigrant.
 Make my parents proud.
 Prove I deserved my place.

But here?

Efficiency isn’t currency.
 Presence is.
 Adaptability is.

Knowing how to wait—that’s the real currency.

Something that shocked me—
 If you want things to move,
 you need connections.

That frustrated me.
 Still frustrates my dad.
 But that’s the system.

Yet somehow—
 people still move.
 Even without light.
 Even when fuel is overpriced.
 Even when the healthcare system fails them.

They keep going.
 And they’ll still dance.
 They’ll still sell fruit with smells that baptize your sadness.

They’ll ask, “You no go come back?”
 Not with judgment.
 With curiosity.
 With warmth.

Because community still exists here.
 Even in the brokenness.
 People show up.
 They bring food.
 They ask questions.
 They care.

Sometimes I’m like,
 “Why are you asking me that?”
 Because I’m not used to being asked anymore.

That’s the part I didn’t miss.
 But it’s real.

Coming home has been confronting.
 But also sacred.

It’s showed me that both can be true.
 I can love Canada and still long for the simplicity here.
 I can feel overwhelmed by Nigeria and still feel rooted.
 I can feel out of place—
 and still belong.

It might sound strange, but the first time I stepped out of the airport,
 I was like, “Everybody is Black.”

My mom laughed.
 I don’t know what I was expecting.

Maybe that’s the point.
 Maybe this isn’t about comfort.
 Maybe it’s about clarity.

Maybe it’s about remembering who you were—
 before life tried to hide her.

Maybe it’s about honoring the parts of you that were never meant to disappear.

And maybe, this episode isn’t just about me.

Maybe you haven’t moved countries—
 but you’re still coming home.
 To a version of you.
 To a voice you buried.
 To a faith you shelved.

And if that’s you—
 even if it feels unfamiliar—
 your homecoming might still be holy.

Thanks for listening to this stream-of-consciousness episode.
 I’m still processing. Still learning.
 Still letting my body adjust.

But I’m glad to do it out loud—
 with you.

If this resonated, DM me.
 Send a voice note.
 Tell me how home feels to you.

And if you’re still trying to find it—
 you’re not alone.

See you in the next one.
 Until then—
 stay soft,
 and let faith lead.