As we celebrate Nigerian Independence Day, I think about the feeling I have whenever I land, a homecoming.
I always say, nobody is from Lagos. Usually because, when they ask, where are you from, people are really asking, where is your family from, more so, your dad. More often than not, the answer pointing to one’s history or family compound  is nestled outside of one of Africa’s busiest cities. Yet, even though most people are not Lagosians, we find ourselves there more than where we are from.
I spent the first week and a half of my trip in Nigeria in the Lagos area. Busy, colorful, good, and bad, Lagos always lives up to the hype. The pulse of the city is hard to ignore and easy to get sucked in.
But driving to the village. The atmosphere changes. The accents change. The Yoruba changes. There is mountains and space. Less congestion. As we ride past the bush and cross into my state, the village nears and I get emotional. Here I am 24yrs old and going to my fathers village for the second time in my life. First time where I can claim actual memories. I’m sad. Because it shouldn’t be like this. This is home.
