As the plane took off, a sense of liberation washed over me, a sense of finally being free to go. With both eyelids shut, I focused my mind on the word HOME, permitting it to dance freely in my imagination as the aeroplane ascended into the air. I made my way to the restroom in the plane to ease myself as soon as the announcement about passing the seatbelt sign was made. I switched on the tap to allow the free flow of tears, and memories of that day came flooding my thoughts.
The memory began when I went to pick up my package from the post office in the capital. It was a Monday morning. As usual, I made a call to the okada rider to inform him of the pickup time at the bus stop. Juniper replied, “My sister, don’t come yet, this junction is currently bloody.” I reached out to a fellow corps member at my Place Of Primary Assignment (PPA) who told me they had been hearing gunshots and advised me to stay in the capital for the time being.
I kept wandering the town of Aba, as all the friends I made from the camp were busy at work. Of course, Monday is the beginning of a workweek; everybody’s busy. I went on a window-shopping spree, paying visits to Chicken Republic and ShopRite. How can I forget? I even went to the bank; I had to while away the time. Like a breeze, it was 4 pm, and I made a call to Juniper and my PPA colleague, who told me I could now come, but my trip would end at a safe location far from the hotspot of violence, and I would be whisked to my PPA secretly.
Then, I made my way to the park with the Ghana-must-go bag containing my raw food. The food package was to last me for six months and was the palliative package my parents gave me to relieve me of the financial stress of feeding with my 33k allowance (NYSC monthly salary). I was trying to save for a big examination; thus, my 50k monthly stipend was something I couldn’t touch.
I proceeded on the journey, and true to the state of things, I alighted at the said junction and was whisked away by a church member who saw me and said waiting wasn’t safe. Juniper had disappeared; he was a leading voice in the ongoing protest but was kind enough to keep me updated. He had lost a youth to the riot. I got to my PPA safely, and the next event would seal that day as the beginning of the week that changed my life.
The PPA Administrator, Mr. Alex (yes, he stays with us in the compound; oh, I should have called him Dr. Alex since I don’t want to be dragged by the ear, a PhD holder), called us and updated us about the situation in town. He informed us that there was advice from the youth who planned to go on a riot. We were to stay indoors until further notice, with all entrances closely locked. If there was going to be a change, we would be informed. However, Mr. Alex would find his way to his hometown in the neighboring state, while we were left locked up in darkness.
I love to sit on the balcony and enjoy the fresh air, which was what the riot took away from me. That week changed it all; everyone stayed put in their room, behind closed doors. There were days I went downstairs and met darkness, empty chairs; everyone had scampered to safety for their lives. I would watch videos online, Instagram videos. I tried reading, but I couldn’t, as I felt a wall gradually spring up between everyone and me. I managed to hide how horrible I felt, yet I couldn’t place the root cause of it.
Four days into the one-week house arrest, Nurse Mila insisted he was bored and was going out, but I couldn’t muster the courage, as I was a woman; what would be my defense if anything went wrong? These men were bloodthirsty and had been kind enough to warn us they would not come near us as long as we stayed in the house.
As these memories kept flooding in my mind, I hear a knock, jolted me back to reality, as I had locked myself up in the plane toilet. Someone else wanted to use the restroom. I made my way to my allotted seat and somehow was embraced by sleep. The air hostess gently tapped me when we landed; we had arrived in Lagos (the centre of excellence). “You can disembark,” she said with a smile. As I stepped out of the plane, the breeze was different, even while retrieving my luggage. I informed my parents I had finally stepped foot on the soil belonging to the South-West. Walking out of the airport brought a sense of familiarity as I watched the cab drivers attempt to drag my luggage while speaking Yoruba. For the first time since I left my PPA, I laughed and said to myself, “I am home, let the healing begin.” For it is time to heal.
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