Home is___?

“Not renewing my visa in Nigeria next time sha. Barbados way”, I seethed in our family WhatsApp group, to my dear mother’s dismay.

“Is that how much you despise your homeland? NA WA OH. Five years of being away and you are in a hurry to leave and not return, ODIEGWU OH!!!”, she wailed, in our native tongue.

Despite her dramatic lament, a gnawing pang settled in my chest – like I’d let myself down, too.

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My given name is Ogechi Onyinyechi Onyenze – yes, my initials are OOO – and it beautifully translates from the Igbo language to “God’s Time,” “God’s Gift,” and “Upright Person.” Each name was chosen with deep intention. My parents were deliberate in their decision not to give any of us – my siblings and me – English names. This, even as our cousins carried middle names like Karen, William, and Noble, and despite generations of grandparents bearing names like Jeremiah, Anthony, and Helen. At the tender age of five, I pled with my mom to grant me an English name. To her credit, she humored me and suggested “Mildred” – but in that moment, I knew it simply wasn’t meant to be.

That early desire for something different – something easier – was the first clue that identity, for me, would never be simple.

As I reflect on what it’s meant to craft my identity as an African child with a heavy western influence, I often find myself at a crossroads between the parts of me I know to be true, and the parts I’ve learned to mold. It’s not lost on me that I am a Nigerian – the green booklet that restricts more than it grants access, is a sweet reminder of that fact. But exposure often feels like stepping into a wide-open sky, promising to soothe wounds you’ve kept hidden for so long. Except, I’m not so sure which wounds still need healing – or which ones I even should heal.

It’s a strange tension, trying to love a place that’s taught you how to bend before you learned to stand.

The experience of being born into a developing nation – especially one that has regressed more than it’s progressed in recent years – is hard to quantify. Love and frustration sit at a stalemate in my heart as I wrestle with my feelings toward where I come from. How do I explain that I adore the “craze” that so often defines my countrymen, while also despising the systems that created that very chaos? My stat class taught me two things can be true at once – but in Nigeria, there’s a multitude of “two things” that are true, and eventually, the logic collapses under its own weight. Someone once said that if the Nigerian experience is explained to you and you understand it, then it wasn’t explained well. My first visit home after moving away for college made that make perfect sense.

By the time I booked my flight home, these contradictions were no longer abstract – they were personal.

After five years away, the 10-hour flight home felt like a trek toward my own demise. Dramatic, I know. But I meant it when I prayed – earnestly – for the good Lord to turn the plane around two hours in. I wasn’t even sure why. Maybe it was not having the original copy of my H1B approval notice for my visa interview. Maybe it was Trump’s looming first 100 days in office. Maybe it was the knowledge that I was returning at some point for a year-long company rotation program. Or maybe it was just plain old “pre-Naij” jitters – or all of it combined. Either way, a quiet dissonance settled in: I was going back to a place I had, essentially, run from. Dramatic again, I know – I can’t help it. I suppose it’s yet another symptom of my nationality.  

Just one visit to the doctor’s office – where nurses launched into praise and worship to the dismay of waiting patients – was enough to confirm that my dramatics were, in fact, warranted.

When I arrived, everything felt…the same – only a bit more worn down around the edges. Bus drivers still hurled profanities as they defended their God-given right to a one-way route. Police officers still manned checkpoints across the city, slowing cars with the familiar pretense of traffic violations, the infamous “anything for the boys” lingering just behind their throats. The hair salon I frequented as a kid still held many of the same faces – even those that started working there so early into their youth. And the worst part? It smelled awful. Like the city had been holding its breath for five years and finally exhaled the second I landed. To add insult to my already fragile sense of national pride, my visa interview turned into a pissing contest with the Nigerians working at the consulate. I was transported back to a time when I couldn’t raise my voice against injustice – forced once again to rely on superfluous “Mas,” “Sirs,” and pleading “pleases” just to inch forward. I wanted so badly to go back home. Except – I was already there.

That tension lingered throughout my visit, shaping how I received even the smallest moments.

So, while my mom’s reprimand stung, I can’t deny what that visit stirred in me. I’ll admit – it didn’t take long to fall back into the rhythm I’d known for 18 years. But even that familiarity unsettled me. My heart resisting the quiet acceptance of the damaging markers that have long defined Nigerian society.

And yet, despite everything – despite knowing better – I’m back for a little while and I’m… interested to see what comes of it.

Maybe I’m a little crazy too.

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Glossary:

Odiegwu – An Igbo expression of disbelief or exasperation; roughly translates to “Can you imagine?” or “Unbelievable!”

Na wa – A common Nigerian exclamation (from Pidgin English) used to express disbelief, frustration, or exasperation. Think: “Wow,” “Seriously?” or “What is this nonsense?”

Oh – A common expression in Nigerian speech, used to add emphasis, emotion, or urgency to a statement (e.g., “It’s hot oh!”)

Sha – A casual Nigerian-English filler that softens a statement or adds finality; similar to “anyway” or “that’s just how it is.”

H1B Visa – A U.S. visa that lets foreign professionals work in specialized fields—assuming, of course, you survive the lottery, fear of policy shifts, and mild existential dread (teehee)

H1B approval notice – An official U.S. government document (Form I-797) that proves your H1B visa has been approved