I still remember the day I left the village.
It was early in the morning. My mother had packed a small black bag for me, and my uncle was waiting with his old Peugeot to take me to the city. I was 17, full of dreams and excitement, and I promised everyone I would visit often. But somehow, 10 years passed before I finally returned.
Life in the city happened fast — school, work, hustle, deadlines, bills, and every other excuse that kept me far away from home. But deep inside, I always carried a small piece of the village with me. I would dream about it sometimes: the red earth, the sound of chickens in the morning, the smell of firewood smoke drifting through the air.
This past December, something in me said, “You need to go back.”
I booked my bus ticket and began the journey that brought tears to my eyes before it even ended.
The Journey Back Home
The road to my village in Benue State is long and bumpy. I sat by the window the whole time, looking out and watching as the scenery slowly transformed — from tall buildings and highways to bushes, narrow roads, and quiet towns.
With every mile we passed, I felt like I was peeling off layers of stress I didn’t know I had been carrying. The air got cleaner. The people looked simpler, more relaxed. Something about the journey reminded me that life is more than just hustle.
When we finally reached the village, I saw the old palm trees that used to shade me and my cousins as kids. I couldn’t stop smiling. But at the same time, my heart was heavy.
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The First Touch of Change
As I walked into our compound, I paused.
Everything looked... smaller.
The trees I once thought were huge now looked like regular trees. The house that felt like a palace to my younger eyes now had cracks in the walls. The once-busy compound was quieter. The kitchen where my grandmother used to cook was empty. The firewood stove stood alone, covered in dust.
Some faces I longed to see were no longer there. My grandfather’s favourite wooden chair sat silently at the veranda — he had passed three years ago. I sat on the ground in front of it, staring at it for minutes. I cried silently.
Not all the changes were sad though.
Some of the children I used to play with had grown up and now had kids of their own. They welcomed me with open arms, teasing me, calling me “big man from town.” One of them, my childhood friend Ameh, had become the youth leader. We hugged like brothers.
The Taste of Home
That evening, my aunty cooked pounded yam with egusi soup and native chicken. I can’t explain the feeling of eating that meal under the open sky, with lanterns hanging on the wall. It wasn’t just the taste — it was the memory, the emotion, the warmth of being surrounded by people who knew me long before life got complicated.
Children ran around barefoot. The elderly sat on mats sharing moonlight stories. I felt like I was inside a storybook. This was the life I had forgotten.
Stories That Brought Back Life
The next day, I spent time with my uncles and aunties, just listening.
They told stories about what had happened since I left. Some were funny — like how one woman’s goat always gets drunk from local beer left outside. Others were sad — like the young man who had gone to the city, fallen into bad company, and never returned.
There were stories about the local market, about how farming had changed, about how the village school had only one teacher for five classes. I listened like a child, hungry to reconnect with the roots I had neglected.
My Childhood Spot
Later that evening, I walked down to the river where we used to swim. The path was bushy now, but I found my way. The river was smaller, but still flowing. I closed my eyes and remembered how we used to run there after school, how we played in the water till sunset, and how my mother would scold me for coming home wet.
Standing there, I felt time bend.
It was like I had gone back to meet my younger self — that boy who believed in dreams, who wasn’t tired, who wasn’t worried about money, who found joy in the little things. I missed him. I missed me.
The People, The Peace
One of the things that struck me most was how peaceful the village was.
No generator noise. No traffic. No rush. People woke up early, greeted each other, shared what little they had. Children went to farm with parents. Elders sat under trees and gossiped about politics. Life was slow, but it was full.
I started wondering: Is the city really living? Or just moving fast without purpose?
Lessons I Carried Back
Before I left, my aunt gave me a calabash of palm wine and said, “You are still one of us. Don’t forget again.” I hugged her tightly.
That visit changed something in me.
I realized how far I had drifted from the things that truly matter — family, community, peace, memory, connection. The village reminded me of who I was before pressure changed me.
I made a promise to myself: never again will I let 10 years pass before I return.
Conclusion: Why You Should Go Back Home Too
You don’t have to be rich or successful to go back home. Go as you are. Go with love. Go with open arms. Whether your village is near or far, it holds a part of you that the world can never replace.
We all need a reminder — not of where we’re going, but where we started from.
I went home after 10 years. And I found myself again.
Joel
