Returning Home

Deyemi was five when he first stepped foot in Nigeria.The next time he did, he was 20, broken, orphaned and lost. He was a shadow of his former boisterous self.

You would often see him walking like there was a 100pound dead man tied to his feet. One leg after the other, dragging on the floor, carrying dust and dirt, storing a few on his shoes and a few more at the hem of his trousers.

“We would never return to this village again!” Five year old Deyemi’s mom had said to his grandmother in her high-pitched voice that made it impossible to tell if she was screaming or not.

His father sat on a reclining chair, ignoring both wife and mother, as he had grown used to this bickering already and was tired of being caught in the middle, constantly. This time, he decided to watch Deyemi build lego trucks, while he marveled at the uncanny brilliance of his son and at the same time admiring his ability to mind his business in the midst of this chaos. He had been told kids Deyemi’s age were easily distracted, but Deyemi was different, he started playing with his legos before this fight began, and even when they began to scream, he did not look up. This one had focus.

“You may not return, actually, you will not return, but he will” Deyemi’s grandmother said, pointing at him. His mother rushed and held him immediately, making the back-to-sender or God-forbid sign over his head. It was at this point his father stood up and spoke. His voice, soft and calm, almost ‘unmanly’.

“We would leave tomorrow”, he said, as if in solidarity with his wife. His mother stood still, the expressions on her face went from shocked to angry to pained, then stopped at emotionless. She nodded slowly, and walked away.

That night, Deyemi’s mother quietly packed their belongings, as his father booked an emergency flight ticket to take them back to Michigan the next day.

Two days later, they were back home, where it was summer, and all was suddenly right with the world.

Until it was not.

First they moved.

Deyemi’s father lost his high paying Job in Michigan, and got one in Philadelphia, so they had to move. Things got really hard.

Then it was the cancer.

It ate into Deyemi’s mother, and their pockets as well.

Soon, he was standing at a funeral, with his closes friends, holding his hand, while his father stood at a safe distance, as they all watched his mother get lowered into her grave.

And what seemed like the end.

His father started drinking, and 16 year old Deyemi joined a gang so he could fend for himself, and get food for his father.

“Nothing much”, he was told. “Make a few drops here and there, then get your pay. Easy stuff. $300 per drop”. This was good money, he took the job.

Last drop of the day and 20th drops since he began, and he got busted by the police. He did what ‘losers’ did, he snitched.

When the gang found out, they sent a message, a strong one, the kind that had Deyemi’s home reeking of the decomposing body of his father four days after he was released from police custody, having fulfilled his part of the bargain.

After running from them for four years, Deyemi took all the money he had, booked a flight and went back home, to his grandmother, who welcomed him with open arms and said

“Omi o le gbagbe orisun e (water cannot forget its source)”.