Becoming Me

Chapter 6: Leaving Nigeria — Packing Dreams & Goodbye Tears

They never tell you how it feels to pack your whole life into suitcases.

To watch your room your safe, messy, familiar little world turn bare in a single day.

The walls suddenly echo, like they’re mocking you for ever believing you’d stay.

The days before we left Lagos were a blur of cardboard boxes and tearful goodbyes.

I tried to be excited. To picture the UK as this sparkling place where my dreams would finally come true.

But deep down, all I felt was dread.

I still remember standing in my front yard, looking at the big mango tree that had been there my whole life.

Its leaves rustled like they were whispering goodbye.

I wondered if it would miss me too.

My best friends, Mide and Chioma, came over the night before our flight.

They brought gala, La Casera and chin chin as if we were throwing one last mini party.

We sprawled on my bed, giggling at nothing, telling stories we’d already told a hundred times.

At some point, it got quiet.

Mide grabbed my hand.

“You’ll call us every day, abi?”

(Will you call us every day?)

I nodded, even though we both knew life was about to change in ways we couldn’t predict.

When they finally left, Chioma squeezed me extra tight.

“Don’t forget us o! We’ll be waiting for the British accent.”

I laughed, but my chest ached.

The airport was worse.

Crowded, loud, full of people going places they might never return from.

My family checked in our bags while I stood off to the side, texting last-minute goodbyes.

Ayomide didn’t come. I didn’t expect him to. But it still stung.

When it was finally time to go through security, I looked back one last time.

Lagos stretched out behind me familiar, warm, chaotic.

The place that raised me.

Where I laughed too loudly, had my first shy crush, dodged trouble with my best friends, and dreamed small, silly dreams.

On the plane, I pressed my forehead against the window.

Clouds swallowed us up.

Nigeria disappeared beneath us like it had never existed.

A single tear slipped down my cheek.

I let it.

Because even though I was heading somewhere that promised opportunities, all I could think was:

Who am I without this place? Without these people? Without the sun that always seemed to love me more?

The night before we left, I had seen Tolu one last time.

We snuck out to a quiet corner by the church compound, under the dark velvet sky freckled with stars.

My heart was beating so hard it felt like it might burst right out of my chest.

He pulled me close, his hands warm on my waist, eyes searching mine like he was memorising every tiny thing.

Then he leaned in and kissed me and this time it wasn’t shy or quick.

It was soft, slow at first, our lips brushing, then pressing more firmly.

His tongue traced gently against mine, making my stomach swoop.

I tasted mint and a little bit of chin chin, and something that was just him.

The kiss deepened, his hands moving up to cradle my face, thumbs stroking my jaw.

I let out a tiny sigh into his mouth, feeling lightheaded and warm all over.

It was messy and breathless, our noses bumping, mouths opening wider, tongues tangling in a way that sent shivers down my spine.

When we finally pulled back, his forehead rested on mine.

We were both breathing fast, and he smiled that shy, gentle smile.

“I’ll never forget you,” he whispered.

Neither would I.

Not that kiss.

Not him.

Not any of it.

By the time we landed in the UK, I had wiped my tears, squared my shoulders, and whispered to myself that I could do this.

But inside?

I was still just a Lagos girl, clutching old dreams, hoping they wouldn’t break in this strange, cold new world.