The drive to Balogun was treacherous, to say the least. The driving in Lagos is something of international significance due to how utterly haphazard the road conduct is. According to a recent study, it is the third-worst city to drive in the world, just to put it into perspective. If I could include a video to illustrate the things I saw along the city’s motorways, I would, as no description can give justice to the farce that I saw. There were motorcyclists and their passengers riding without a helmet. Some passengers even sat sideways while they zigzagged through the numerous industrial-sized lorries and vans that occupied the same main road. Old, weathered pickup trucks carried groups of passengers to their destination in the back. Some men were even standing at the back. Buses, which looked like they were about to combust at any second, clunked along. Twenty or so people seemed to have been crammed into an automobile that was designed to fit half the amount.

Photo Credit: Hannah Uguru

I internally cringed at the thought of what would happen if there was to be a collision. Lagos interstate motor travel had developed in line with my aunt’s evolution into a Lagosian, having lived here now for nearly two decades. She was used to the driving, but I was not; I was horrified by what I saw. I wound down the windows to cool down the internal heat of the car and was hit with the overpowering smell of carbon emission. The pollution in the air there is something I had noticed whenever I veered towards any main road in the city, but the stench grew tenfold when I was within its direct source. The odour lingered as we finally reached the main market, though the smell of fossil fuel secretion had now dulled down to be taken over by a mixture of market scents. An aromatic combination of carbon, sweat and food filled the air.

Just like at the airport, the locals could sense that I was not one of them. I was hounded by sellers asking me to come and purchase or further inspect their goods with every glance or cursory turn of my head. ‘London!’ they shouted at me. ‘I’m not from London’, I would respond. They used ‘London’ interchangeably with the ‘UK’ so that when I would say I’m not from London, instead of drawing clues from my accent, a number of different country suggestions would be thrown at me. ‘America! Australia! Italy!’. Even my own aunt and cousins would mistakenly ask me about London, under the impression that I lived there or close, as opposed to a 3+ hour train ride away. Sometimes their faces would crumple as I spoke. They were unable to understand the words I delivered, despite me speaking in a perfectly neutral English tone. At this point, I was used to this, as my aunt and the rest of my extended family would ask me to repeat myself often. I could understand them entirely, thanks to my parents’ retention of their homeland accent, yet they could barely comprehend me. This may sound upsetting, but I was more so annoyed than anything else, especially at the verbal harassment. Having said that, I understand that the appearance of a ‘foreigner’ means big business to local vendors, so I can’t fault them as much as they irritated me. My aunt and I scoured all over Balogun, looking for the perfect jewellery, fabrics and accessories. I bought some beautiful bracelets for the equivalent of 25p each, as well as a mountain of different prints and designs to take to the tailor later on. The local stalls and markets in Nigeria are a sight to see and behold, they’re a flurry of animation, and I hope to visit more across Africa in the near future.

Photo Credit: Hannah Uguru

Revelations

The aforementioned night vigil was towards the end of my stay. We’d all arrived home tired and exhausted from the night of worship, though my aunt and I congregated in the living room. I was recounting my trip to Kaduna, which I had taken to see my dad’s side of the family a few days prior. Somehow, we ended up on the discussion of my siblings. Nnenna and David are two of my three younger siblings, and they both have severe autism. My mother had, unknown to me, kept It a secret from the rest of her family since she’d had them. Aunt Lilly knew that they had some type of disability, but she was totally unaware to the extent or what autism even really was. ‘The first time I’d heard of this autism dis ting was when you told me about it,’ she said. I was thoroughly surprised that my mum had managed to keep the details of their condition hidden for so long, 17 years at this point, or 14, I guess, if you start counting from the diagnosis date. Everything suddenly started making sense. Why she’d left and never returned; why she was so hesitant for me to go back; why I knew nothing about my Nigerian kinfolk beyond a few awkward utterances of ‘Hello’, ‘Chinny how are you?’, and ‘I’m fine’ on the telephone. I asked my aunty why she didn’t tell you, and her voice broke. ‘She said that she didn’t want to be a burden’. My heart felt heavy. She asked about me and how I’ve coped with it, and my heart, too heavy to hold in the emotion, burst into a sea of tears. I simply briefed her that it had been hard. I didn’t have the composure to build upon there and then. My aunt must have still been full from the spirit of prophecy after church as she gripped my hand to start praying with me. She declared healing onto them and the rest of my family. I was cynical, but I did not object. We sat there and talked and cried until dawn.

Concluding Thoughts

My soul lies in England, though my being rose from Nigeria,

An Igbo girl taken away from the village, the village taken out of me,

My identity is a hybrid of Naija and UK,

Caught in a crossroads between being the subject and the object,

Of Western Imperialist thoughts.

I present now my African adventure,

My return to the Motherland,

My Journey into myself.

Written By: Our Commissioning Editor Hannah Uguru – who is an award-winning writer who is passionate about discussions centring black women and the nuances within this identity. Connect with her on Instagram and on her blog.

Header Image: Book cover ‘With Love From Nigeria’ by Bernard Halstead