Diary of a Wanderer

I couldn’t wait to get home, to showcase my new cooking skills, the various local foods of diverse African nationalities my travels had made me discover, and the genres of African music we were not used to hearing in our country.

I have always thought a home should be a place of love, where family members scattered in search of better days can run to when the going gets tough.

Although I had little money on me on my way back, I tried to buy food stuff, drinks and some nice pieces of cloths for my parents and siblings.

A few days after arriving, I noticed my gifts were still on the dinning table. Everyone seemed reluctant to touch them. At first, I assumed it was a coincidence. But as the days passed by, I began to search for an explanation, which wasn’t far, although not expressed.

They must have assumed I had changed during the years I was away. Perhaps, I had joined a cult and the gifts I brought had charms in them to terminate their lives or bring them some bad luck.

In the absence of a good explanation, this was what I could sniff from their attitude. Of course, I felt offended. If only I could forsee this, I would have saved my little money.

And so, that was how the perishable goods I brought got wasted. And I had to drink the soft drinks I brought alone.

I thought perhaps, the kitchen might be a place to proof my clean motives. But it soon turned out to be more of a competition. Mother had always cooked for the family and we all enjoyed her foods. But after showcasing some of the new cooking skills I learnt, I could see what seemed like defeat in her eyes, like her place in the home was threatened. Like a title she’s always held was snuffed from her hands. Which didn’t make sense because that was not my intention.

I expected everyone to learn something to add to what they already knew so that we all become better. But her attitude made me understand why mother’s style and quality of cooking have always been where they were. So many people have passed through our home, with diverse skills and ideas. But her attitude had been like a shield, protecting her from learning new things to advance her life.

Not only was my new skills and gifts rejected, but everyday it seemed there was a deliberate attempt to find faults with everything I did in that house. But why? I kept asking myself.

During the day, the house sometimes becomes quiet, and boring. The only things happening on TV were incessant herbal medicine ads, preachers lecturing on biblical topics they knew little about, more like their opinions than messages from God. In between these were scammers promoting get-rich-quick schemes or nollywood movies downloaded straight from YouTube with the watermark of the producers still on them, or some old Hollywood movie that the directors had even forgotten about.

To kill this formidable boredom hanging all over the house, and to create a mood of happiness and unity and love in our home, I would play some music from my collection of songs from different African countries using my brother’s speakers.

But it was never long before I was reminded this was a Christian home. And such songs were not welcome. Even without asking what they meant.

Initially, all this drove me nuts. But soon, I learnt something. That this was my sign to go start a new home, where I lived as I please. My stay under the roof of my parents were overdue.