Where is my home? A question I ask often, a thought that comes into my head now and then.
Sometimes I feel a bit lost – a little ‘homeless’ (metaphorically speaking). I was born in Nigeria but moved to the Devon (in England) when I was five, and for a long time I still called Nigeria my home, only to go back 12 years later to find that Nigeria didn’t feel like home, or maybe what I thought home should feel like. Then I went to study in Cardiff and I referred to Devon as my home, only to visit Devon to then realise Devon did not feel like home. Then four years later I moved from Cardiff to London which is where I live now and started referring to Cardiff as home, but I soon realised Cardiff really didn’t feel like home. So where was home – what really is home?
I thought that if we still had our family home in Nigeria where we lived when my dad was alive, I would get a sense of home but now I’m not so sure. Lately I’m realising maybe home isn’t a city, town or village, maybe home isn’t a flat, bungalow or house, maybe home isn’t where I keep my plants and hang my clothes… Home is whenever I am with people I love and people that love me, and what a blessing it is to have people to love in more than one city, what a blessing it is to be loved.
Home is with my family all together at Christmas in Edinburgh, home is eating tacos at my friend’s house in Cardiff, home is watching films with the best housemate ever in London, home is crying my eyes out in church when being prayed for, home is when I’m on my own talking to God, home is eating the best food ever with my extended family in Nigeria, home is eating ice-cream on the beach with my faves in Cornwall, home is in an Airbnb in Devon with all my best friends on my birthday, home is playing with toys with my little cousins in Guilford, home is whenever I’m with my mum. Where love resides that is where I have found home.
I guess you can call me a multiple home owner.