Returning home is like stepping into a different dimension, a world where time seems to slow its relentless march. Shortly after seeing familiar faces, I retreated to the shade of an ancient tree, seeking solace in its embrace. The air hung heavy with the perfume of its leaves, a natural incense filling the night. Dew, like gentle blessings, kissed my shoulders as I sat in quiet contemplation. An uncle joined me, his voice resonating with warmth and familial pride. He spoke of another uncle, one who had secured residency in the UK, his words painting a picture of achievement as if it were his own triumph. “Wonderful news,” I echoed, genuinely pleased for his reflected joy.
As he recounted stories of distant lands, my mind wandered to the uncle in the UK, a man of quiet strength and devotion to his family. I imagined his life unfolding there, a tapestry woven with the threads of a new home, a loving wife, and three children. This train of thought broadened, encompassing other family members who had ventured out, each carving a unique path in diverse corners of the world. Though scattered, the village remained a common anchor, a shared point of origin that resonated within each of us, albeit with varying degrees of intensity and nostalgia.
Just two days prior, the journey back to this tranquil haven was a stark contrast to the peace I now felt. Our bus, en route to this village, succumbed to mechanical woes near Agenebode, finding its reluctant halt beside an MRS Filling Station. The driver, with a blend of apology and resignation, declared, “Na Fuel stop the motto,” as he procured petrol, seemingly the ironic solution to our fuel-related predicament. The heat was oppressive, each moment stretching into what felt like an eternity. The miles blurred – Lagos to Benin, then Asaba, Ogwashi-Uku, finally Auchi. Dust billowed, coating everything in a fine layer of ochre as our family caravan traversed the southern expanse. Arrival, when it finally came in the early evening, was understated. My grandmother, her joy overflowing, enveloped us in hugs, her happiness palpable. Jollof rice and smoked fish became the welcoming feast. An uncle, settling into the familiar rhythm, engaged in Etsako conversations with old family friends who had come to greet us. Yet, a subtle observation surfaced – his fluency, once effortless, seemed slightly dimmed by time and distance, the language a muscle slightly atrophied from infrequent use.
Later, drawn by an unseen force, I stood by the roadside, gazing into the stillness of the village night. Tranquility reigned supreme. The villagers moved with a deliberate slowness, unburdened by urgency, each step measured, each action unhurried. There was no frantic race to an imagined destination, no restless pursuit of the next moment. Returning to the house, the image of these calm figures lingered in my mind. Their unhurried pace stood in stark opposition to the frenetic energy that defined my Lagos life. I, accustomed to the relentless tempo of the city, found myself both captivated and unsettled by this slower rhythm. It was as if the village itself was a Night Dancer, moving to a different beat, a more measured and deliberate cadence. Trying to attune myself to this new rhythm, I sought out a quieter corner of the house, a dimly lit space near the kitchen entrance. Standing at this threshold, I peered through doorways facing each other across a narrow passage – the entrances to the kitchens of the compound’s two houses. These doorways, in their silent proximity, seemed engaged in a timeless conversation, a dialogue that had commenced long before my arrival and would continue long after my departure, a constant hum beneath the surface of village life, a subtle night dancer in the quiet hours.
