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Claiming Pieces of My Childhood in Sweden
Part III: Searching for Home Across Continents
I started my odyssey in Stockholm, where I lived as a baby. The contrast between Northern Europe and my Africa could not be more extreme. Lagos, Nigeria, is vibrant, the vivid colors and patterned cloth, its legendary music and movie industries, the multitude of evangelical churches that provide hope along with welcome packets of maize flour. But the air is thick with soot and struggle. Daily life here is an ordeal for many.
Sweden is pine-tree clean and hums with purpose. Stockholm is a lovely city spread among fourteen tiny islands. It has played an oversize role in my life. Dad travelled to corporate headquarters in Stockholm several times a year. He’d bring back toothpaste tubes of salty pink caviar and the rye crispbread we squeezed it onto and gleaming Orrefors crystal that pinged a soprano note when flicked with a forefinger nail.
We had Swedes with names like Bengt and Rune over to the house for drinks and dinners or went to theirs. When I had to do a report on a country in fifth grade, I chose Sweden. On the day of my class presentation, Mum made meatballs from a recipe in her Swedish cookbook, and I took my Sámi dolls from northern Sweden, dressed in traditional indigenous clothing, to round out the show-and-tell.