EPISODE 6: THE HOMESICK DAY🤒
974 Words
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Day 8. Monday.
It hit him first.
At 9am my time, 2am his time, my phone lit up.
*Tariq: Can’t sleep.*
*Tariq: Everything here is so loud and so quiet at the same time.*
*Tariq: I think I’m homesick.*
I was half asleep. I typed back:
*Me: Come home?*
*Me: Oh. Wait.*
He replied at 6am my time.
*Tariq: Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you. Just woke up and didn’t know where I was for a second.*
I stared at that text all morning.
He’d been so strong the first week. Making jokes. Sending photos. "Team us" and all that.
But Day 8. The newness wore off.
On our 9pm call he looked different. Tired in a deeper way. Like he’d been carrying something all day.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," he said back.
We did the usual. How was work. How was my day. But it felt forced.
"You okay?" I finally asked.
He sighed and leaned back. His tiny apartment looked even smaller tonight.
"I don’t know, Morie. Today sucked. My boss asked if I was ‘settling in okay’ and I almost said no. The snow is depressing. I tried to make your mom’s stew and it tasted like water. And I walked past a park and saw a couple holding hands and I..." He stopped.
"You what?"
"I had to go sit in a bathroom for 10 minutes."
My chest hurt.
"Why didn’t you text me?"
"Because you can’t fix it. And I didn’t want to make you sad too."
"But I’m sad when you’re sad and you don’t tell me," I said quietly.
He looked up. "That’s fair."
We were quiet for a bit.
"I miss home," he said. "Not just you. Home. The noise. The sun. The way people talk. Even the bad traffic. I miss Bwino sleeping on my feet."
"I miss you in our home," I said. "It’s too quiet here too."
"Is it stupid? It’s only been a week."
"It’s not stupid. You moved countries, Tariq. You’re allowed to feel like this."
He nodded, but his eyes were red.
"I’m scared this is what the next 5 months is going to feel like."
"Hey," I said. "One day at a time, remember? Day 4?"
"Day 4," he repeated. "The hoodie day."
"Yeah. The hoodie day. And Day 6, the pasta day. And today is... Day 8. The homesick day."
"The homesick day," he laughed, but it was wet.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"I’m homesick too. For you. Every day since the airport has felt a little homesick."
He exhaled. "Really?"
"Really. So you’re not doing this alone."
Something in his face softened.
"That helps," he said. "Knowing you get it."
We didn’t talk much after that. We just sat on call. Him in Toronto, me in Blantyre, both in hoodies. Mine his. His his.
At 9:40pm he said, "Can you do something for me?"
"What?"
"Tell me about home. Something normal. Something boring."
So I did.
I told him about the lady at the market who tried to sell me 3 bunches of bananas when I only wanted one. About the power going out for 20 minutes and everyone just sitting in the dark talking. About how my sister burned rice again.
He closed his eyes and listened.
"More," he whispered.
I told him about the sound of taxis at 5am. About the smell after rain. About Bwino and how his cousin said he keeps looking at the door.
When I stopped, he was smiling a little.
"Thank you," he said. "I needed that."
"Anytime. I can be your home voice memo."
"I’d like that."
At 9:55pm he yawned.
"I think I can sleep now."
"Good. You need it."
"Morie?"
"Yeah?"
"I’m glad it’s you. Even with the homesick days."
"I’m glad it’s you too. Even from Toronto."
We hung up.
I didn’t sleep right away. I grabbed my notebook.
_Day 8: He was homesick. I was too. We told each other. 174 days to go._
At 10:30pm:
*Tariq: Sleeping better. Your voice helped.*
*Me: I’ll be your voice memo anytime.*
*Tariq: Deal. Night, home.*
*Me: Night, home.*
*Tuesday. Day 9.*
He texted at 8am his time.
*Tariq: Woke up. Still here. Still homesick but less. Made coffee. Thought of you.*
*Me: Proud of you. Drink water too.*
*Tariq: Yes mom.*
*Me: Someone has to be.*
On our 9pm call he looked better. Still tired, but lighter.
"I did something," he said.
"What?"
"I called my cousin. Asked about Bwino. And I found a Malawian restaurant 30 minutes away. I’m going Saturday."
"Really?" I grinned. "What are you getting?"
"Nsima. And beans. And I’m going to complain that it’s not as good as yours."
"It won’t be," I said, smug.
"I know."
We talked about his plan to video call his mom more. About me starting a new book so I’d have something to tell him. About small things we could do to feel less far.
"I think the homesick comes in waves," he said.
"I think so too," I said. "And we ride them. Together."
"Team us," he said.
"Team us," I answered.
After we hung up, I thought about Day 8.
Homesick days are going to happen.
To him. To me.
We can’t stop them.
But we can tell each other.
We can sit on call and be sad together instead of sad alone.
We can remind each other what home feels like until we’re in the same one again.
In my notebook:
_Day 9: He’s okay today. Homesick is a wave. We learned how to float. 173 days to go._
At 11pm:
*Tariq: Thanks for yesterday.*
*Me: Thanks for telling me.*
*Tariq: Always.*
*Me: Always.*
Day 8 was hard.
But hard didn’t mean broken.
Hard just meant human.
And we’re human. Together.
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to be continued...*
- Writer
