A Place Called Elsewhere – A Creative Nonfiction by Chidinma Nnalue, Nigeria

Growing up, one of those things I disliked most was moving. Moving to a new house or school meant that I left friends behind or if they did the moving, they left me. It meant that my siblings and I would no longer sing and clap with glee as our new priest, Father Joachim, led us in a song during donations for our Parish building. It meant that I’d no longer see my two best friends; the ones I sang with during free periods in class, while I mostly tried but failed not to be caught singing off-key. Moving made me come to accept this Yoruba proverb, “Twenty children cannot play together for twenty years”, long before I became twenty.

By the time I was ready to go to University, I already knew that life is in seasons and people come and go. So I didn’t mind choosing a university six hours away from home. I remember how I couldn’t stop admiring nearly everyone I saw on campus. I was there for Post-Utme and in the female hostel; whether it was in the tiny room where I stayed temporarily or in the common rooms, each time I saw another female student, I wished to be like her. And throughout the week I spent in that hostel, I don’t recall missing home. All I wanted was to become an undergraduate. My wish would come true. And four years later, Youth Service called me off to a place even farther from home.

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So far, I have been to or lived in 5 Nigerian states and this used to make me think of myself as a well-travelled woman. I’d joke with my siblings about it because they’ve never lived anywhere except Lagos. I would tease them because they haven’t travelled hours on roads flanked only by trees or seen the numerous checkpoints that irk many travellers.

None of my siblings has ever regretted not having enough phone battery so they could entertain themselves on a journey that lasted till midnight. Nor have they been to Ore– the rest-stop of weary travellers- and chosen bananas and groundnuts over an overpriced restaurant meal. They also haven’t seen the River Niger or bought jumbo-sized bread for the people they are visiting. They haven’t experienced any of these; good or bad as they may be.

But I no longer flatter myself about being well-travelled. After all, I haven’t been to Cameroon yet. I haven’t tasted beans and puff puff. All I’ve done is wonder if it’s the same kind of puff puff sold here in Nigeria; the one served as part of the savouries we eat at weddings.

I haven’t been to Madrid either, nor have I been on a balloon ride in Istanbul or run my hands over the rugs in the Grand Bazaar. In fact, I haven’t travelled farther than Ogun State in one year. And for several months this year, I have missed travelling.

It all began when I saw a friend post a video of her in a moving car. I saw the area and asked if she was on a trip. After seeing that video, on early mornings when I raced to board a bus to Oshodi, seeing passengers waiting at motor parks made me long to travel. But, despite this wish to feel some new places, all I have for now, are memories of places I’ve been to and a yearning for new places to come.

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Yet, before I go to Cameroon or Turkey or Spain, I want to visit Kaduna, then Abuja for a truckload of books from a friend’s library. I want to live a full year in Anambra or Enugu. Or perhaps Imo or Aba, if only to hear little children who speak more Igbo than me, then to Yola, because someone told me that it’s a beautiful place.

I had never thought of the northern states as anything more than a danger zone until I met a girl whose Igbo father met her Yoruba mother in Adamawa. Meeting her in the Middle Belt re-educated me, however little, about northern Nigeria. It made me realise that beyond being seen as volatile to the rest of the world, up north is the only home some people know.

Living with this friend taught me a few new things too; like enjoying eating dates and coconuts and drinking kunu shinkafa with plenty of sugar. Plus, I picked up a few Hausa words. And perhaps if I had paid enough attention, by now, I’d know enough Hausa to communicate with vendors selling suya and vegetables and ofio, so I can get a little extra.

I have found that going to a new place has changed me. I’ve met people who are not Igbo or Yoruba or Hausa and I’ve come to cherish many of them. I’ve learned something about their culture and dance. It has also left me indecisive about whether it’s the Tivs or Binis or Idomas or Hausas that have the best gospel songs. It made me long to set my stories in places other than this densely populated city where I’ve lived most of my life, too.

New places, whether it’s a new home or state, or workplace have helped expand my life’s story. I’ve had new experiences. I’ve taken roots in places where I never thought it possible to thrive. I’ve found love with and drawn hope from the people around me and that, for me, is priceless.

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“Happiness doesn’t have just one address”, and I agree with whoever wrote it. There’s a lot to see in the world and a lot of happiness to experience, even in new places. The healing you need could be in a place far away from what you’ve always known. The leap your career requires might just be found when you choose to move to that new town. The creative spark you desire may be found once you step out of your room into somewhere on the other side of town, or someplace across the street. New places, however far or near, may just hold some of the most beautiful experiences that our lives need. You and I only need to find those places. I hope we do!

This Creative Nonfiction was published in the August 2022 edition of the WSA magazine.
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