Do you ever wonder why our minds select and filter out memories? Like when we recall our childhood memories—distant and not-so-distant ones. Does our brain glorify some parts while finding ways to discredit other memories? I also wonder how our brains select the parts necessary for growth while shielding us from the potentially harmful parts of our thought processes.
Most of the memories of my childhood while living in Nigeria are blurry. However, some vivid moments have stuck with me. For example, I recently learned that the duality in my personality may be a result of surviving trauma, but equally, a memory lost in time. All these are lessons I am still coming to terms with. I left Lagos at age five, but I still recall every Friday being a daddy-daughter day. My father made a habit out of it to take me to the local suya spot close to our estate at Ajah and those little acts made me look forward to the weekends. And up till this moment, Friday remains a special day to me. From the usual call to prayer that echoed through the breeze blocks of the Minaret from the local mosque to waking up for my weekly market runs, and to the day I bought my favourite yellow bike—the same one from the pictures my parents took of me at that time. In many ways, the yellow bike symbolised the life and joy I left behind and the journey ahead.
It was moving away from my birthplace to a new country at a tender age, without much explanation from my parents for why or how often, that disoriented me. It shaped my perspective early in life, affecting how I related to family or the bits and pieces of other memories that reminded me of Nigeria. And, up until the point of moving, I had only spent very brief moments with my mother. Interestingly, I have never seen this as negative, rather it was simply my life. I could not have anticipated the discomfort of meeting my mother again after being separated from her as a child. She had merely been a distant voice over the phone and a face on emailed pictures that happened to be a carbon copy of mine. But, from the moment we reconnected things began to fall into place over time, this was through a lot of conversations and love. I started to understand where my mother was coming from regarding the path my life took and she helped me fill in much of the missing pieces of my blurry memories.
New things come with their new excitement. My relationship was blossoming with my mother. However, despite the excitement I felt, something was still missing, and after much thought, I realised that the mixed feelings in my chest would take quite some time to settle in. Growing up in a small town in Ireland with a Yoruba name was quite interesting, to say the least. Irishness was something that was reiterated and intentionally fed to me through the education system and various streams of knowledge and I craved the same kind of intentionality when it came to my understanding of Yoruba culture. If anything puzzled me the most about the Irish it was the memories and inconsistencies of religious teachings and traditions. Going to weekly compulsory masses in catholic school, while also attending compulsory Islamic lessons on weekends. My way of life at that time led to more questions than answers.
I can describe myself as someone who had an understanding of the basics and general principles of my culture and what it was to be Nigerian, but, very little was explained to me or elaborated on the importance of loving our foods, having a grasp of the language when speaking to older relatives and remnants of fuji and afrobeat music growing up. I lacked the deeper understanding of what fundamental principles meant and the reasoning behind them and, all of these feelings regularly evolved into a vortex of how these contradictions co-existed in my post-Celtic tiger Irish societal life.
Tales of layered corruption and grim disappointment usually accompanied the depictions of Nigeria when it came to Western media coverage and, even if I wanted to write home, there seemed to be nothing to write about. And speaking of home, whenever I think of relatives, I mostly recall stories of familial tensions between distant relatives and deceit whenever it came to money and business. On many occasions, an investment for a new home in Lagos turned into a bogus real estate business deal that almost ran my family’s pockets dry. This meant coming to terms with the difference between the stories I had been told in comparison to what I experienced as a child. The Lagos I once knew and held dearly was certainly gone and I had to rebuild new memories. It was only until my late teens and early years at university that I began to gather reasons for this conflict. In my final year of university, I received news from my close uncle of my older cousin’s engagement and subsequent wedding that would be held that summer. It was from there that plans to go to Nigeria were established. At that point, it had been almost fifteen years since I had been back to Lagos. All that was certain was that I had a month or so in the summer and little to no plans after the wedding. This would also be the first time travelling back home with my mother and it was only until after the unfolding of events that I truly understood the significance of this.
I have a vivid recollection of the day I set off for Lagos. From the whooshing, piercing cry of the plane’s engine, to the refusal of the bland aeroplane food by my tastebuds, or the conversations I overheard and the air hostesses brushing past me… I was also in good company throughout the journey, my mother was with me. Arriving at Murtala Muhammed International Airport was reminiscent and felt like the familiar embrace from a childhood friend, uneasy at first yet so distinct. I recall being told not to interact with the airport roadside workers, traders and taxi drivers until we reached our house at Ajah, for fear of being scammed. This was funny because it dawned on me, throughout the trip, that no matter how much I tried to blend in with locals, my otherness was evident. As I stepped out of the airport and was embraced by the Lagos heat, the incessant calls of hawkers and uproar of pidgin around me felt kith and kin. When we finally arrived at my family home after hours on the road caused by the long traffic queues, I felt an overwhelming feeling of relief. It was as if everyone was prepared for my coming and like a well-rehearsed choreography cousins and family friends appeared in a synchronised manner, a bit chaotic, but in a seamless way. It wasn’t until then that I understood the depths of family and the safety one can feel within that. My mother was by my side and helped me to bring back colour to some once blurry stories. Although there were times of awkwardness between relatives or misunderstandings in language, in the end, the strength of relationships became evident. The beauty of those familial ties was not in the frequency of the physical interactions but in the creation, recalling and reconnecting of memories.
Witnessing my cousin’s wedding felt like a full-circle moment. The day started with a meeting of the groom’s family and ours where we gathered in an extravagantly decorated party hall in Ikeja. Getting the full experience as a bridesmaid was quite enjoyable. Wearing full Aso Ebi for the first time felt like a breeze. At the heart of the celebration, there would be moments where aunties would explain the order of engagements of the days. From the introduction to Nikkah to the final party. I felt a weaving of culture and religion I had not witnessed before. This wedding helped me to understand the importance of curiosity and the need to ask questions when they arise. I understood the significance of the cultural details such as the groom offering the bride gifts and the merging of families. I knew then that I had a responsibility as an adult to question and seek understanding in the places and with the people around me. Some days after the wedding I visited my Uncle’s Maize farm in Ibadan. It was there that I understood the richness of working with my hands. I remember working until the point of physical tiredness as I once did when I played on my yellow bike as a child. The afternoon breaks involved a walk around the neighbourhood. I remember strolls to the well where the children in the present played with skipping ropes till the sun came down. It was in those moments I experienced the ritual of communal dinners and the allure of repetition. We would share stories about my uncle’s childhood, his longing for rest and his hopes for the future. Up until this point, I had not seriously wondered what life would be like if I had stayed in Lagos as a child. My time on the farm was unusually calm and peaceful considering the labour and intensity of the sun. As the days drew closer and my return to the Netherlands became apparent I managed to convince my mother that I would stay with my uncle until the end of the summer and in the following weeks I found myself helping with the farm’s administrative tasks and minor labour. It was also then that I found out that my uncle had been battling an ongoing illness which no one in the family knew about. It was during one of our communal dinners that he came out about visiting a doctor whom he was unsure of. It was precisely at this moment, that the man who always appeared cheerful and strong broke down and confided in me. For a moment I felt a level of betrayal which was followed by sadness and then a series of questions for deeper understanding. In the following weeks, I offered to take on more work at the farm and to accompany him to his appointments.
My Uncle Shina had always been a brave man, a person who continuously showed resilience throughout his illness. It took some time to process the uncertainty of it all but when the gravity of the situation sank in, the joy of the initial reunions I once felt was consumed by a surge of sadness at the potential loss of love and life at any instant. I witnessed family members travelling from far and wide to visit my uncle. Telling tales of his unwavering spirit and cheerful warmth. My mum also had to make a U-turn back to Nigeria. The speed at which people rallied together was certainly heartwarming. In the face of illness, being present was the most important thing. Despite the uncertainty of the situation I understood why I felt the overwhelming urge to stay longer. Having the opportunity to witness and be present in those moments was a gift. Thankfully with time, several doctor appointments, and an operation my uncle recovered. I sat by my uncle’s bedside with my cousins where we spent the majority of the time watching nature documentaries. I felt the strength of his quiet courage. The man who had just a few weeks ago taken on laborious tasks was now forced to take the rest he longed for. The fragility of his human body was face to face with the strength of his spirit. I had never anticipated to have gone through such a mixture of experiences and emotions in one summer. My trip was marked by an intersection of the joy of reunion as well as the sadness of farewells to come. The homecoming I had imagined was grand and filled with noise. However, in reality, it led me to a place of comfort and stillness.
I finally came to terms with the reality that Nigeria did not have to be either bad or good. While I was disheartened by the stories of corruption violence and deception. It was important to write my own stories. Stories of genuine familial care and presence. My journey home became a celebration, not just for myself but the community I found in new friendships formed and experiences I would not have had if I stayed in Ireland that summer. I had finally accepted Nigeria as a place of contradictions and various extremes. I understood that my culture is not stagnant and neither are the relationships I had the privilege of experiencing. My homecoming was not only a physical relocation but also a resetting of my memories. They now served as a reminder of how far I had come.
