The last seven years of my dear life I’ve spent moving, from home to an old city then to a reformed city and now waiting to run back to where it all began, home. I’ve moved from gain to gain, from love to pain to more love in all. It all seems like there is no relinquishing, no consistency whatsoever, no stable memories made.
I envy people who are able to say “I’ve been friends with so and so for 5 straight years, or 6 or even 10”. When I say this I mean in the same place not separated by distance. Moving for the past seven years from place to place hasn’t just affected me psychologically, it has also threatened my vulnerability and transparency with people. I tend to tighten up socially knowing I couldn’t afford to feel guilty the next chance I get to chase my bags to someplace else. Overall, it’s not a good thing, however it’s made me less judgmental and more accepting of people. It’s brewed me to much understanding about various caliber of homo sapiens. My heart is always excited literally. I’ve had to dictate for myself, ground myself in the absence of my parents and my sometimes bossy elder sister. I’ve learned several ways to stand firm after being pushed hard, ways to come back from certain falls.
22 is riding away and I’ve showed up for myself everyday since it clocked until this very moment. I’ve had to retell my memories with old and new souls to strangers. It’s one of the ways of healing and moving on or what some distinguished people may refer to as “therapy”. It is somewhat a way of freeing myself of heavy words. The sweetest of them all is exchanging laughter with very old people, burying my pride in their cold hands and feeling younger every passing day. My happiness is in knowing I worked for and shared awesome moments with them here in my second home.
I could fear less about rumours hovering or the discouraging trends in the news about home. I care less about wanting or being wanted in this place knowing how much I’m bringing and willing to give. I mean, what was the point of leaving in the first place? My late teenage years were not the proudest moments of my life. Growing out of myself and back in, being selfish, resisting goodness, falling out spiritually and totally dismissing opinionated advice from others on my life. I had churned myself into this human, this girl still holding onto her life’s only consistency, home.
I can tell how much the few hands that held me down are hugging my breath slowly again. They’ve become more outward since I mentioned “home”, thrusting their secrets to my ears like we are never going to see again. Some days they remind me of what I could be feeling this time next year. They remind me how much I mourn after goodbyes. It is sweet. It is heart wrenching. I’ll be crying with words soon. I sometimes sense fear and withdrawal in a few. The feeling of wanting to say something but holding back or just totally expressing their thoughts differently. It’s like knowing you’re going to die and seeing people mourn you whilst alive. It can be very awkward, entertaining or just vague but I choose everytime to be present and just feel.
I’m leaving Brighton soon but I’m happy leaving this city feeling fulfilled, loved and held. There’s no replacing three vibrant years and all the lessons and people it came with.
SEPTEMBERS ARE FOR HOMECOMING!
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.