Traveling Through Time: I Visit My Father’s Village

Nigeria, 1993

Emotions became more frayed as we approached our final destination; my father’s village, the place affectionately known by many Nigerians as the bush. We stopped a couple of times along our route.

My sisters and I would warily step out of the cab and accompany mom and dad as they went about searching for the people he’d known from his childhood. After we’d located these strangers, the three of us would tarry as mom and dad conversed with the villagers in Igbo. A great deal of pertinent information — more than twenty years-worth — was wedged into such a small window of time, often just a few minutes in some instances. My mom was routinely doubling over and weeping after absorbing the painful stories.

As we traversed through the village, we discovered that all of the roads and walkways were made up of orange sand. Dwellings were built a considerable distance apart. I looked down and saw that the orange dust from the road was attaching itself to the cuffs of my pants. When I looked up, I was surprised by the sight of a wildly gesticulating woman. She ran to my father and then collapsed to her knees once she was before him, wrapped both arms around his legs, and began sobbing uncontrollably. Dad reached down and pulled her up by her hands, wrapped both of his arms around her back, and wept. Mom…