I am from a place that no longer exists as I remember it, and I am becoming someone who carries that place like a second skin. This is the quiet, unglamorous work of diaspora: not just leaving, but learning to hold a homeland that shifts with every retelling. Where I am from isn’t a fixed point on a map. It’s the scent of frying plantains drifting through a window, the weight of a grandmother’s warning, the rhythm of a language I speak more fluently in dreams. And who I am becoming is a woman who listens to those echoes while building a life in a country that often asks me to mute them. This piece wanders through the tangled relationship between origin and identity—how geography shapes the self, how memory bends under the pressure of distance, and how we negotiate belonging when home is both a place and a story.
The Geography of Memory: How Place Inscribes Itself on the Self
Before I knew I was Nigerian, I knew the smell of harmattan dust. That fine, silty powder that settled on every surface in December, turning the world beige and making my mother mutter about her sinuses. I knew the sound of generators coughing to life at dusk, the taste of mangoes so sweet they made my jaw ache. These sensory imprints are the first draft of identity—written before we have language to question them. Psychologists call this place attachment, the emotional bond between a person and a physical environment. For those of us in diaspora, that bond becomes a phantom limb. We feel the ache of a place we can no longer touch.
I grew up in Ibadan, a city of rust-red roofs and sprawling markets, where the air was thick with the scent of roasted corn and diesel fumes. It was a place of contradictions: deep communal warmth and sharp economic edges. My family’s compound was a universe unto itself, with uncles who debated politics over bottles of Star beer and aunties who communicated in raised eyebrows and proverbs. That world taught me that identity is not a solo project. It is woven from the threads of other people’s expectations, their disappointments, their stubborn hopes. When I left for university in the United Kingdom at eighteen, I thought I was simply changing addresses. I didn’t realize I was beginning a long, slow negotiation between the person I had been and the person I would need to become.
Migration splits the self in ways that are hard to articulate. There is the you who left, frozen in time, still laughing at inside jokes in a language your new friends don’t speak. And there is the you who arrived, learning to code-switch, to flatten your accent, to explain your culture in digestible soundbites. The geographer Yi-Fu Tuan wrote about topophilia, the love of place, but diaspora often demands a kind of topo-mourning—a grief for the landscapes that shaped you, even as you build new attachments. I have learned that you can love a place without wanting to return to it. You can miss a version of yourself that only exists in a specific location, under a specific sun.
The Weight of Unspoken Stories
Every diaspora carries a suitcase of unspoken stories. Some are too heavy to unpack; others are too precious to risk losing in translation. My mother rarely talked about her childhood in the village, but I pieced it together from fragments: the way she flinched at the sound of raised voices, the reverence with which she handled yams, the songs she hummed while braiding my hair. These were not just habits. They were archives. In her silence, I learned that some memories are too tender for words, and that love can be expressed through the careful preservation of pain.
I think about this now, as I navigate my own silences. Living in the West, I am often asked to perform my origin story: to explain where I am from in a way that is neat, linear, and palatable. But the truth is messier. It involves a father who worked too hard and a mother who prayed too much. It involves a country that has disappointed me as often as it has made me proud. To be from Nigeria is to hold a complicated inheritance—one that includes the brilliance of Wole Soyinka and the corruption of politicians, the warmth of extended family and the weight of patriarchal expectations. I am learning that I do not owe anyone a tidy narrative. I can be grateful for my roots and critical of the soil they grew in.
This ambivalence is a hallmark of diaspora identity. We are not just between two places; we are between two versions of ourselves. The Nigerian me is louder, more deferential, quicker to laugh. The British me is more guarded, more skeptical, more likely to question authority. Neither is more authentic. They are both survival strategies, honed in different ecosystems. The work of becoming is learning to let these selves coexist, to stop apologizing for the contradictions. As the writer Taiye Selasi has argued, we are not from places but from rituals, relationships, and restrictions. I am from the ritual of Sunday rice and stew, the relationship with a grandmother who prayed for three hours every morning, the restriction of a society that told me ambition was unfeminine. These are the coordinates of my becoming.
Language as a Home and a Barrier
One of the most intimate ways we carry where we are from is through language. I grew up speaking English and Yoruba, but my Yoruba now is a child’s Yoruba—full of simple sentences and awkward pauses. When I visit Nigeria, relatives tease me gently. “Ah, you’ve become oyinbo,” they say, using the word for foreigner. I laugh, but the joke stings. Language loss is a quiet grief, a severing from the people who raised you. My grandmother spoke to me in proverbs, and I answered in English. I didn’t realize then that I was choosing a door she couldn’t open. Now, when I try to speak Yoruba, I feel the shape of her in my mouth, and I wonder if she would recognize me.
Yet language is also a site of becoming. In English, I have found a voice that is mine—sharp, searching, unafraid of complexity. I write essays and stories that my grandmother could never read, and that fact fills me with both pride and sorrow. This is the paradox of diaspora: we gain new tools for self-expression even as we lose access to the people who first taught us to speak. I am learning to see my accent, my code-switching, my occasional stumbles as a kind of fluency in itself. It is the language of someone who has learned to make a home in the in-between.
The Body as a Map of Belonging
Where I am from is also written on my body. The scar on my knee from falling off an okada in Lagos traffic. The way my hips sway when I hear highlife music, a rhythm I absorbed before I could walk. The tension in my shoulders when I enter a room where I am the only Black person—a learned vigilance that I am trying, slowly, to unlearn. Our bodies are archives of place, carrying the physical memories of the spaces we’ve inhabited. For those of us in diaspora, the body becomes a contested site: it is where the past lives, but also where the future is negotiated.
I think about this when I cook. The scent of jollof rice rising from my London kitchen is a time machine. It takes me back to my aunt’s cramped flat in Lagos, where she would stand over a gas burner, stirring the rice with a wooden spoon worn smooth by years of use. I replicate her recipe, but it never tastes quite the same. Maybe it’s the tomatoes, or the water, or the absence of her humming. Or maybe it’s that the dish, like me, has had to adapt to a new environment. I am learning to accept that my jollof rice is not a replica but a translation—and translations, by their nature, are acts of creation as much as preservation.
Belonging as a Practice, Not a Destination
I used to believe that belonging was a place I would eventually arrive at—a moment when I would feel fully at home in my skin, my country, my life. I have since learned that belonging is not a destination but a practice. It is the daily work of showing up, of building connections, of allowing yourself to be seen in all your complexity. For those of us in diaspora, this practice is especially demanding. We are constantly negotiating multiple claims on our identity: the expectations of our families, the stereotypes of our host countries, the idealized versions of home that exist only in our memories.
One of the most helpful frameworks I’ve encountered is the concept of cultural hybridity, developed by postcolonial scholar Homi Bhabha. He argues that diaspora identity is not a simple mixing of two pure cultures but a “third space” where new, hybrid forms emerge. I find this idea liberating. It means I am not a diluted Nigerian or an incomplete Briton. I am something else entirely—a product of the encounter between these worlds, with my own unique perspective and voice. This third space is where I write from, where I love from, where I am learning to live from.
But hybridity is not without its challenges. It can feel like rootlessness, like a permanent state of in-between. There are days when I long for the simplicity of a single, unambiguous identity—to be from one place, of one people, with one story. On those days, I remind myself that complexity is not a weakness. The multiple selves I carry are not fragments but facets, each reflecting a different light. My task is not to choose between them but to hold them all, gently, and to let them speak.
Practical Reflections: Navigating the Space Between Origin and Becoming
Over the years, I’ve developed a few practices that help me navigate the relationship between where I am from and who I am becoming. These are not prescriptions—every diaspora journey is unique—but they are anchors that keep me steady when the waters get rough.
1. Storytelling as a Form of Return
Writing has become my primary way of returning to the places I’ve left. When I write about my grandmother’s kitchen or the sound of rain on a zinc roof, I am not just remembering—I am re-inhabiting. Storytelling allows me to bridge the gap between past and present, to bring the people I’ve lost back to life, if only for a moment. It is also a way of making sense of the contradictions, of holding the beauty and the pain together in one frame. I encourage anyone navigating diaspora to find their own form of storytelling—whether through writing, oral history, photography, or simply sharing memories with loved ones.
2. Building Intentional Community
One of the hardest parts of leaving home is losing the community that defined you. In diaspora, community doesn’t just happen—it must be built. For me, this has meant seeking out other Nigerians and Africans in my city, joining book clubs and discussion groups, attending cultural events. But it has also meant building relationships with people from different backgrounds who share my values and my questions. Community is not just about finding people who look like you; it’s about finding people who see you. These connections remind me that I am not alone in my in-betweenness, that there are others navigating the same waters.
3. Embracing the Grief
There is a tendency in diaspora discourse to focus on resilience, on the strength it takes to build a new life. But I have learned that resilience without grief is incomplete. We need to mourn what we have lost: the people, the places, the versions of ourselves that didn’t make the journey. Grief is not a sign of weakness; it is a sign of love. When I allow myself to feel the sadness of missing my grandmother’s funeral because I couldn’t afford the flight, I am honoring the depth of our connection. Grief, like joy, is a form of belonging.
Frequently Asked Questions
How does where you are from shape who you become?
Where you are from shapes your earliest sense of self—your values, your habits, your ways of seeing the world. For those in diaspora, this relationship becomes more complex because you are constantly negotiating between the culture of your origin and the culture of your new environment. The result is often a hybrid identity that draws from both but is not fully defined by either. It’s a dynamic process, not a fixed state.
Is it possible to feel at home in more than one place?
Yes, but it’s rarely a simple feeling of being equally at home everywhere. Many people in diaspora experience a sense of “both and neither”—they feel connected to multiple places but also like an outsider in each. Belonging becomes a practice rather than a permanent condition. It involves building relationships, creating rituals, and finding ways to carry the essence of your origin into your new context.
How can I stay connected to my culture while living abroad?
Staying connected to your culture can take many forms: cooking traditional foods, speaking your native language, participating in cultural events, reading literature from your homeland, or simply staying in touch with family and friends back home. It’s also important to remember that culture is not static—it evolves, and your version of it may look different from what you left behind. That’s not a failure; it’s an adaptation.
What if I feel disconnected from my heritage?
Feeling disconnected is a common experience, especially for second-generation immigrants or those who left at a young age. Reconnection is possible, but it often requires intentional effort: learning the language, traveling back if you can, asking questions, and being patient with yourself. It’s also okay to acknowledge that your relationship with your heritage may be different from that of your parents or grandparents. Your connection is valid, even if it looks different.
Conclusion: The Ongoing Conversation
Where I am from and who I am becoming are not two separate things. They are in constant conversation, each shaping the other. I am from the red dust of Ibadan and the gray skies of London. I am from my mother’s prayers and my father’s silences. I am becoming a woman who writes her way into understanding, who builds bridges between worlds, who refuses to choose between the parts of herself. This is the work of diaspora: not to resolve the tension but to live within it, to let it teach us what it means to be fully human.
If this resonates with you, I invite you to sit with your own story. What are the places that live in you? What are the selves you are still learning to hold? The answers may not come easily, but the asking is its own kind of homecoming.
