I'll Be Home For Dinner...

Ok so...at last its Tuesday morning. Finally this day has come. Today I don't mind waking up at 5am. Today I don't mind I went to bed only 3 hours ago. Rush, rush I can't be late for dinner and neither will I let today start with fuss. My cab driver did not come at 6am as he promised, I will not cuss. Gateman!, fetch me another cab its almost 7 o'clock. Mad rush to the airport long queues at the check-in counter. Feisty airline crew to endure, what the hell its my fault I didn't book ahead. N5,000 dash to the custom officers these suitcase are packed with foods from our mother land; ground and whole Crayfish, Ogbono seeds, Egusi beads, Guava, Agbalumo, Ugu leaves (dried and wrapped in yesterdays ''This Day'' newspaper), bags of choco-milo cubes and bottled groundnuts for my London based family. Today I don't mind my bare feet on the filthy grounds of Murtala Muhammed airport. Today its "Yes Sir" to every and anything even when grown uniformed men ask "anything for the boys?". Today you may seize the " perfect pair of tweezers" I just bought because you've seen too many Angelina Jolie movies and think I just may be "the choosen one" Abdul Mauallad left unfinished business for. Today anything goes but I must get home on time for dinner.

As I settle into my economy class window seat which was previously occupied by my co-passenger who couldn't read seat numbers accurately. I remember the past eight months that delayed this trip for so long. I lean my head against the window and remember how I only made the decision to make this journey a week ago. We taxi off into the air...up, up and away! I look out through my reclaimed window and see the crooked and random outline of Lagos streets both tarred and untarred disappear into the roof tops of mansions, offices and wooden shacks. I am glad to leave the madness behind even if only for a few weeks I shall be rid of the never ending unpredictable nature of our land and people... the fluctuating diesel costs all depending on who buys it the gateman or driver, potential clients who promise to become paying clients if "you co-operate" and feed their lust, business partners rapidly turning to evasive suppliers once paid, the next man trying to get "one-up" on you each chance he gets. Six hours later and two movies down I hear the pilot instruct air hostesses to take their seats for landing. Again I look out of my window and see the contrast of neatly lined square clusters of land split by planned motor ways, roads, and streets of varying sizes, sprinkles of landmarks like Big Ben and the London Eye. Its good to be back to where I still call home not because of the familiarity with the place and its culture but because my heart my family still lives here. God bless Heathrow management; luggage is out and on my trolley less than 30 minutes from landing. I walk briskly through the doors marked nothing to declare with all the foreign goodies in my suitcase as I pray hard for God's favor and protection from British customs. God is faithful I go through customs into the meet and greet area of the airport and spot the Indian taxi driver my brother had booked to pick me up from the airport with a turban on his head and my name on a little white board in his hand. I smile...he nods, and  takes my luggage and in silence I follow him to the car park. I bbm the siblings to let them know "the eagle has landed" on our own blackberry group appropriately named "Brother and Sisters". We bbm my whole trip home and what a pleasure when I finally make it home to my mum's and my brother is waiting outside to help drag both suitcases into the house.

Lots of kisses and hugs from Mum followed with spontaneous outbursts of songs of praise to God.  A war hero's welcome is nothing compared to this.  The phone is still buzzing with announcements from the sisters ''I'm two stations away, makes sure no one opens the suits cases till I get there''; another call comes in '' make sure you hide my 'Agbalumo' from the others'', these are few of the calls that keep us busy till everyone is home.  Tuesday dinner is cooked but everyone is too busy to set the table or sit around the table.  As parcels of Ugu leaves, Egusi and cray fish are freed from well hiden and folded Jeans and Ankara, plates of food make there way from the kitchen.  Too much food I cant decide  - what the heck I'll have the lot; rice, oxtail stew, efo soup packed with lots of chicken and fish and the even eba freshly made with garri thats just been flown in.  The excitement is too much to bare, the conversations are too many to finish.  Excitedly I start to tell them about one story and jump to the next one without finishing the previous.  Its good to be home, Tuesday dinners are tradition in our home.  My sisters thought it would be the best way to keep my mum company during the busy week.  Oh my God is that the time yells one sister I'm working tomorrow!  Everyone starts slowly and reluctantly making their intentions to leave known by wearing their shoes and changing out of the ankara dresses I brought them back into the office clothes they had worn to mums.  Finally the last sister leaves and my mum shuts the door behind her looks at me and says ''I'm so glad you made it home for dinner''.   ''....Its good to be home mummy I reply.

Home is indeed where the heart is.