Home is a song

The road home was quieter than I remembered. Red dust rose behind the bus like smoke from old memories, and every bump in the path felt like a heartbeat calling me back. I sat by the window, head leaning on the glass, watching the fields stretch wide under the Benue sun. Mango trees waved gently as if greeting a long-lost daughter. I smiled weakly, though inside I felt the weight of the silence I’d been carrying for years. When I left the village five years ago, I promised myself I’d never come back. Too many ghosts lingered in its songs. Too many nights where the sound of drums reminded me of what I’d lost. But life has a way of circling us back to where the healing must begin. Mama’s voice echoed in my mind, soft and certain: “You can’t heal in a place that still hurts until you face it.” I didn’t believe her then. I do now. The bus came to a slow stop at the junction. Children ran past, their laughter bright and untamed. I stepped down, clutching my small brown bag—the only thing I owned that hadn’t changed. The air smelled of dust, firewood smoke, and roasted groundnuts. It was the smell of home. Mama’s compound stood just ahead, framed by hibiscus flowers and an old avocado tree that had outgrown the fence. I hesitated at the gate, afraid of the memories waiting on the other side. “Ah! My daughter!” Her voice broke through the stillness like music after a long fast. Mama came out, wrapper tied tightly around her waist, eyes glistening with joy. Before I could speak, she pulled me into her arms. Her embrace felt like sunlight—warm, familiar, forgiving. “You came,” she whispered, her chin trembling slightly. I nodded against her shoulder. “I had to.” She led me inside, her hands never leaving mine. The compound looked smaller than I remembered, yet it carried the same peace. The old drum still leaned by the wall, half-covered in dust, like it had been waiting for me. My heart tightened. That drum once knew all my secrets. “You’ve lost weight,” Mama said, fussing with my hair. “But your eyes still carry the same stubborn fire. You’re still my girl.” I smiled faintly. “And you still talk too much.” She laughed—a sound that could melt stone. “Come, eat. You’ll tell me everything later.” Inside, the house was filled with the aroma of okra soup and roasted fish. Every scent pulled up memories: late nights by the fire, singing with Papa, laughter spilling into the dark. But Papa was gone now. His absence hung in the corners like a familiar ache. As I ate, Mama hummed softly. It was a song I hadn’t heard in years—a melody from our village’s festival days. The same one Papa used to play on his drum when the moon was full and the whole village gathered to dance. I stopped eating. My throat tightened. “You remember it?” she asked. I nodded slowly. “Every note.” She smiled knowingly. “The song never left you, Ada. You just stopped listening.” Her words pierced through me. For years, I’d drowned out the sound of everything—God, hope, music—because silence felt safer. Pain taught me to keep quiet. But sitting there, in the soft hum of home, I felt something stir—a small rhythm inside my chest, faint but alive. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I sat outside under the stars, listening to crickets and the whisper of wind through banana leaves. In the distance, faint drumming echoed from another compound—a celebration, maybe a wedding. The sound carried through the night like a heartbeat I’d forgotten how to follow. I closed my eyes. The rhythm was uneven at first, then steady. I found myself tapping my fingers against my knee, quietly at first, then with more intent. The drumbeat called to something deep in me—something I’d buried when Papa died. I remembered his last words, the day before his passing: “Never let the world steal your song, my daughter. Even silence has rhythm.” Tears filled my eyes before I could stop them. I whispered to the stars, “Papa, I don’t even know what my song sounds like anymore.” The wind moved gently, brushing against my face as if to answer. Mama’s voice came from the doorway, low and soft. “You’ll find it again, Ada. But not by running from silence. You must listen through it.” Her words lingered in the air, floating between the stars and my heartbeat. For the first time in years, I didn’t fear the quiet. I listened to it. And somewhere deep inside, beneath the weight of grief and memory, I heard the faintest note of something pure—something waiting. A song. My song. Coming home again.