At home – the beautiful home: Nigeria.
The land where I am simply Ndubuisi, unconscious of my color.
The land where man is just man – never black or white.
The land where policemen use guns to frighten but rarely to shoot.
Yes that beautiful land where policemen go to break fights without holding guns.
It is a home, not perfect, but the liberation on Nigerian soil is matchless.
The World Economic Forum (WEF) may rank Lagos low as a livable city on culture because we have limited museums. People, in Switzerland, you need invitation to join a party. In Lagos, the taxi that drove me has a sticker: “This Car Stops in All Parties, Uninvited”.
There are things which no human can measure unless you live them. Those WEF people know nothing of Lagos because they are not of Lagos!
I can hear the sound of owambe as the African chrysanthemum withdraws, and crickets beckon with a fading energy of the rainy season which will usher the dry season. The cry of lullaby breaks through and finds itself into the thick of the beats, bringing the pitch that tomorrow holds a promise. The heavens open with gentle rain, in perfect melody for aluminum roofs, after the prayers have broken through before the face of God. Then light goes off, asking everyone to sleep for tomorrow. But I could hear deep faraway: Oshodi, Oshodi.
Nigeria – this is home.
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