True life story.
So I was in England a few years back studying for my Masters. It was a very beautiful experience I must say
Nna men, Ndi Oyimbo amaka. They are so beaurifull. Their life di very peaceful. Apart from the unholy cold, living abroad was a memory I would forever cherish.
But in all the euphoria of learning how to speak through the nose (British accent), eating chicken and chips, drinking tea and biscuits, wearing blanket thick jackets to avoid freezing to death, standing in queues (not a Nigerian thing), enjoying unlimited wifi and not worrying about NEPA.
Something was missing……
As the typical Igbo boy that I am. The tall lanky glasses wearing son of Anambra parents born somewhere in Onitsha. For an unrepentant son of the Igbo soil like me, even living in the UK left something missing….
I was missing my village…..
I missed preparing to travel with my siblings by going Christmas shopping.
I missed showing off my new clothes in the village.
I missed hearing people left, right and center speaking Igbo.
I missed the most beautiful drink on Earth; fresh palm wine.
I missed eating the World famous akpu and fresh oha soup.
I missed waking up to the calm serene and peaceful atmosphere in the village.
I missed going to greet my grandparents at the balcony.
I missed seeing my grown-up cousins and remarking “you have grown so big since I last saw you”.
I missed visiting my Uncles and Aunts in one far village house.
I missed struggling to speak the Igbo language while they laughed me to silence.
I missed hearing Biafra war stories told by my grandfather.
I missed feeding the goats at the back of grand pa’s house.
I missed chasing the fowls around.
I missed coughing at the sight of those firewood stoves.
I missed attending Bazaar.
I missed forming Senior with my siblings and cousins whenever it was time to go get food.
I missed listening to Igbo music and Igbo speaking OAPs on the radio.
I missed going to Eke market to buy things for the house.
I missed being told ” you are getting so tall” by my relatives.
I missed going to Catholic Church close to grand pa’s house where the Priest speaks Igbo.
I missed eating abacha on a regular basis.
I missed plucking fruits in the compound with stones and stick.
I missed fetching water in the well just in front of grand pa’s compound.
I missed going to the school compound close to grandpa’s house to play football with the village boys and my cousins.
I miss attending weddings in the village. Weddings where you actually eat proper Igbo food.
I missed going to the farm to see how grown the cassava was becoming.
Going back to the village isn’t just a thing Igbos do because we get bored of City life or just feel like spending money.
Going back is like going to see your long lost father. It’s an identity reaffirming ritual for us.
No matter where we are, who we are or what we are doing, going back to the village is one of the most awesome experiences every Igbo man, woman, boy or girl looks forward to every year.
It’s that time of the year again.
Ka anyi jebee…..