I don't know where home is

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My autocorrect is trapped in a bloody battle between warring worlds. When I text on my phone, Spellcheck Soldiers search through my ranks, trimming overweight words and snipping extra u’s to the applause of my American friends. Why faff around with extra fluff? Keep it simple, silly. If you could call it brown sauce, why crane your neck pronouncing Worcestershire sauce? One is cheaper to print.

But when I write on my laptop, my words know the drill. Word silhouettes swell and fill out like inflating balloons. Eight years into living in America, I remain convinced that planes are made of aluminIUM—yes, like calcium and helium. E-yum. Yep, like a food delivery startup that raised money right before the ‘99 Bubble. Or a sick vape flavor targeted at 90s kids.

When I’m chatting with my countrymen, I feel like a band who’s been gifted a new instrument. Like someone extended my alphabet with new letters. With expanded range, I can construct new words and songs.

Have you ever heard a Nigerian cackle-laugh? That guttural, spine-tingling laughter can only be unlocked by the undulations and narrations native to our Pidgin. The language gives the storyteller all the necessary tools—the paint, the acoustics, the hyperbole, the onomatopoeia— needed to tell hilarious stories.

So I speak three dialects of English—often on the same day—often without noticing. When someone asks where I'm from, I think: 'How much time do you have?'" Because my passports, tax returns, and birth certificate tell different stories.

No matter how much I’ve aged since my last visit, the moment I land in Heathrow, I revert to Teenage Tobias, splashing out slang like "peckish" and "leng". I'm always American in airports. Since I got that bulletproof Blue Shield, immigration officers stopped frowning at me, and even became pleasant. Crazy how that happens.

I used to tell people I grew up in Lagos, but every so often, someone would tell me they loved the safaris in Kenya, and I got tired of telling them that's three thousand miles away and our languages are as similar as paint and pasta. I haven't lived in Nigeria for fourteen years, and in 2023, I spent six months traveling the world on sabbatical. I got a chance to ask the question again and again—“where is home, really?”

Is it Lagos?

The city that nourished me with endless years of deep belly laughs and frustrating bouts of daily chaos. A place where someone accused snake of stealing $100,000,, and meant it unironically. A hub with a vibrant heartbeat that smacks you awake the second you step outside the airport —the welcoming waft of humid air and the morass of people “greeting” you.

Lagosians dance through everything—births, weddings, graduations—but also, protests, political rallies, and funerals. On your way to your fabolous fête, you'll smell the seductive aromas of roadside suya kebabs and the intoxicating whiffs of smoky, party jollof rice, but you'll drive past open gutters that present pungent, sour reminders of urban life for the less-fortunate. You'll hear talking drums beating in rhythm with the vivaciousness of the populace.

Twenty million people packed in a hustling, coastal megacity means locals revel in collisions—chaos, creative fusions, colorful characters, everybody is moving-and-shaking—this is the currency of daily life. But these collisions often bloom wonderful surprises.

Lagos is the only place where you can touchdown in the morning, run into a long-lost friend who invites you to a blockbuster wedding that night. Twelve hours later, you're wearing a custom-made, bedazzled, traditional outfit and you're dancing three feet away from a live performance by a Grammy winner: Wizkid or Burna Boy.

Aside from the food, the infectious energy, and the party paradise, Lagos offers the incomparable feeling of being understood with ease. It's a compelling case.

drinking palm wine in Lagos like a Nigerian uncle

Or is it San Francisco?

The IRS seems to think so. For the past seven years, my zip code has pencilled me within this city’s limits. The city that transformed my career prospects—from an underpaid, idealistic lab intern to a highly paid software engineer. But there’s more to the story. Eminently walkable streets. Curvy hills that elevate and depress you in space while showing off gorgeous views of the Pacific Ocean. Sidewalks adorned with various textures of human poop. White sneakers on every block but not enough feet in heels.

Fifty square miles of big-bottomed corgis and Teslas with finicky door handles. Beautiful parks where people sunbathe in 59 degree weather. Fantastic food if you’re willing to bore a hole in your wallet. A culture of fitness fanatics—hikers, bikers, skiers, climbers, runners—and supremely laid-back vibes. It's been home for a while, but maybe that season is over?

Could it be London?

A city that thirsts after football like my own parched heart. A people steeped in mania for those three months when the sun strips the sad skyline of its usual frown. A place where contactless Tap Tap Tap takes you from city centre to little towns, through villages and cottages, traversing all six hundred square miles of the megacity.

British food is often hated on, but nobody makes a meaner savory pie or more swoon-worthy scone. Sunday roast drizzled in gorgeous gravy should be on your bucket list, if you haven’t been so lucky.

Is there a more international city? Arts, culture, and centuries of history coalesce within these city walls. If you can’t visit all of Europe, you can find all Her daughters and sons in London, sprint-walking during rush hour in the Tube, and sipping ales and tales at the pub.

A city with a very strong and perceptible African culture—afrobeats pulsates through the city, you hear it on buses, trains, at Boots pharmacy! The luxury of choosing between hundreds of Nigerian restaurants and barbers. London’s flirtatious glance is elite, but how can a tropical baby survive on a measly diet of only three months of sun?

How about Barcelona?

A place with a penchant to enjoy life with all dramatics included. People who talk with their hands and enunciate with their whole body. The juxtaposition of the ancient world—tiny, cobblestone streets in the old city—and the newer barrios with its distinct chamfered corners.

A rebellious spirit born from their fight for independence and surviving multiple attempts to burn down the city in its history. The courageous hands that rebuilt from the rubble. Montjuïc Park that blessed me with sweeping views of the city. A global crossroads—I made Swedish, Ivorian and Colombian friends in one week. And of course, the pinnacle was attending mass at the cathedral of football when I watched a live match at Camp Nou.

Where else might it be?

It’s not Lisbon. My six-day trip there was pleasant but too short to form a real opinion. Although, I must confess I peeked at home prices there and imagined escaping to Costa de Lisboa. Ask me again in twelve months. I pinky promised a friend there I would return.

A place with a penchant to enjoy life with all dramatics included. People who talk with their hands and enunciate with their whole body. The juxtaposition of the ancient world—tiny, cobblestone streets in the old city—and the newer, Eixample barrio with its distinct hexagonal grids. A rebellious spirit born from their fight for independence and surviving multiple attempts to burn down the city in its history. The courageous hands that rebuilt from the rubble. Montjuïc Park that blessed me with sweeping views of the city. A global crossroads—I made Swedish, Ivorian and Colombian friends in one week. And of course, the pinnacle was attending mass at the cathedral of football when I watched a live match at Camp Nou. 

Watching Barcelona live at the Nou Camp was an out-of-body experience

Where else might it be?

It’s not Lisbon. My six-day trip there was pleasant but wholly insufficient to form a real opinion. Although, I must confess I peeked at home prices there and imagined escaping to Costa de Lisboa. Ask me again in twelve months. I pinky promised a friend there I would return.

What about the Asian countries on my tour?

Could it be Bangkok?

A foodie heaven that has corrupted my idea of how much good food should cost. Three dollars buys the bus fare for a ticket to aromatic heaven in Bangkok. Tom yum that hits every desired note—sour tickles, kicks of heat, divinely fresh herbs, umami blankets of fish sauce. I mean, what else could I possibly want in a dish?

I couldn’t get tired of tom yum if I tried

Or Bali?

An island that extends an open welcome to creatives and all peoples. No one asks for your ID at the door—come as you are. Be transformed by the natural habitat and warm welcome of the locals. You feel the open, accepting spirit as you zoom past rice fields, sit by gorgeous sunsets, and appreciate the natural beauty. Bali was the only place I visited twice on my trip, and I hope to spend three months there someday. 

But wait—am I mistaken expecting home to be a physical place visible on a map? Is home my invisible pump nestled within, that gifts me extra wafts of air when I’m running low? The sense of peace I feel in certain environments that transcends nationality, language, and culture?

OK but…

dancing at my brother’s wedding

Lagos is technically my home. It has always been and it always will be. Nothing could ever match the feeling of dancing to Wizkid’s Pakurumo at a Nigerian wedding—rich aunties dressed to the nines cooling themselves with jewelry-encrusted fans, uncles doling out dollars on the dance floor, the nearly-thirty crowd reciting the lyrics word for word.Serving staff dancing while holding hot trays of small chops, finger-food meant to whet your appetite. Guests on the dance floor serving warm eye-rolls, sass, and evergreen smiles.

The knowing look when a cute stranger asks you to show what you’re made of. Your onset panic, masked by a silent gulp, before you regain control, find your breath again, and flaunt your peacock feathers.

You own your hips in the West, but in Lagos, the drums of Konko Below compel old and young to the middle of the dance floor. In Yoruba language, Lagbaja invites everyone to meet him down on the ground. Barring medical complications, a crowd descends in unison as the beat sultrily guides dancers through the decline. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. Those of weak knees are allowed to stop where biology places limits.

Then, you come back up at the same pace you went down. The whole time you’re basking in your proud elegance, feeling yourself, carrying your shoulders as if you own the damn place. This is not the time to feign humility—pretend if you must, but keep your ascent slow, slow enough to rise in unison with everyone else. We are one in this journey.

In Kuala Lumpur last year, my best friend from college, Rob, and I ran into a closing bar begging them to give us five minutes to dance to a classic Nigerian song blasting on their speakers. As they cleared cocktail glasses and wiped down seats, we ran in, dancing and singing at the top of our lungs. I’d never do this for Drake.

But I have no plans to live in Lagos, so home has to become something more personal—an invisible pouch I carry with me. A feeling, fleeting or forever ingrained, that nourishes from within. My family is spread out, in England and America, so home might have to be the few moments when we’re all together, even if that’s once a year.

Through the bustling streets of Lagos, the relaxed monoculture of San Francisco, the cultural richness of London, the flair of Barcelona, and beyond, I have sought the elusive concept of ‘home’. But the notion transcends geography—it’s the moments of laughter shared with family, and instant bonding with strangers I’ll never see again. It’s deja vu from another life: the sights, tastes, and sounds that resonate with my soul.

As I sit on my brother’s couch in New Jersey, reflecting on the scattered pieces of my life, I realize home isn’t tied to a single place. It’s a perceptible, unmistakable feeling. I know when it’s absent, and when it’s present, I bask in its grace and depth. I could feel at home at an afrobeats party on the moon. So, instead of wading through options like a multiple-choice exam, perhaps I should embrace the beauty of the feeling when it arrives. Home is to be felt and cherished, not intellectualized about.

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This piece was featured in my magazine Untethered—that is available now in print, or digital. It features stories from six different wanderers on incredible journeys. A nomad weary after three years on the move, and a brave soul shunning societal expectations to embrace her true purpose. Meet an explorer reminiscing about the magical mundane —-the precious moments shared on a friend's couch. Walk in the shoes of a wanderer who stumbles upon the real-life location of a scene from his book, and learn from a seasoned traveler reflecting after visiting 50 countries.

How has your idea of home changed over the years? Tell me in the comments :)