Many ways to come home. - by Strength ⚜️

They told us this was home. I believed them. I believed them when my teachers told me to study hard because my future was in my hands. I believed them when they called us leaders of tomorrow. I believed that if I worked hard, got my degree and did the right things, there would be a place for me here. So I studied, graduated with a first class, and then, Nigeria introduced me to adulthood. My certificate did not come with a job. When I finally found one, my salary disappeared into transport, food, electricity, data and the endless little expenses that somehow became big ones. Basic amenities that should be provided. I learnt that having a degree did not mean having an opportunity. Hard lesson. I learnt that getting sick could frighten you for reasons beyond the sickness itself and many times you could be doing everything you were told to do and still feel like you were standing in one place. “Do your part” became a slang I heard day-in-day-out, but I never ceased to question; what exactly am I supposed to do with my part when the system keeps failing its own? I can take responsibility for my life, yes, but personal responsibility cannot replace a functional institution. Then came 20:10:20The day I watched Nigerians carry their flags into the streets, asking for a country that worked. The day the protectors spilled the blood of the ones who should be protected. But we carried flags, not weapons. We came with hope, and somehow left with threats. That was when something changed in me.We had been taught that this was home, but to the best of my knowledge, home was supposed to be where a child could dream without apologizing for it. Where a classroom was a place to learn, not a place to fear. Where a graduate could carry a certificate without carrying it like a begging bowl. This wasn't the bargain. I still loved her tho, and that was the most frustrating part. I was angry with her and still called her home. She’s home. I looked at the cost of living rising like Mount Everest and still wonder what had happened to the green on our flag. Isn't green supposed to mean fertile? What is it doing on a land where people struggle to grow hope? The land is rich. The people are tired. And then someone asked me why I wanted to “japa”, as if leaving meant I had stopped loving home. What do you do when the home you love keeps hurting you? At what point does staying stop being patriotism and become self-sacrifice? I don't have the answer, still, I don’t think the Nigerian who leaves is necessarily abandoning Nigeria. She’s is simply looking for somewhere her effort can breathe. Life first. She can leave and still send money home. She can leave and still build. She can cross a border without crossing her heart. She can leave and still love. The Nigerian who stays is not automatically more patriotic either. We cannot measure love for a country by who remained within its borders. So, yes, I may leave. I may return, and I may not. But wherever I go, I will still carry this place with me, because once a Nigerian, always a Nigerian. Hope will surely find us again, but my question;What happens when hope finally comes, and the people who needed it most are already gone? Until then, Happy 66, Nigeria. 🇳🇬

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