Going home to die?

I grew up in a foreign country with my parents and immediate elder sister. The most elderly siblings of mine had left for home, our native country some years earlier.

When I grew up and as years passed by, I noticed I was a foreigner. Although, I spoke the native language of our host country it was later in life that I knew my foreign status. I started schooling there, so we played games together, we went a fishing sometimes, we played football even in the burning sun of West Africa no matter the temperature.

I had things in common with the natives, I ate their food, dressed like them, greeted and acted like them on several occasions and spoke their language flawlessly. But it got to a stage when our parents noted that my elder sister was dating the natives. I also started disliking anything our home presented, our food, dressing, greeting because the totality of our tradition and culture were alien to me.

Daddy, God bless his soul, after carefully assessing the situation announced to our hearing in unmistaken and unequivocally terms that he was preparing to go home.

I was heartbroken, what will happen to my friends, education and ambition in life? Going home to us was like going to an unknown place. What would be our lifestyle there? Will they be friendly or hostile to us? How about settling down and learning a new way of life entirely. How long would it take? Shall we adapt easily to this new environment? As for our parents, they had overstayed in a foreign country and it was time to go back to their roots.

Although, papa had made such failed promises in the past, he was not taken seriously. My elder sister took the statement with a pinch of salt. In my own case, in the inner recesses of my heart, I simply said, "tell it to the marines papa"

Later when papa felt we were more relaxed and because he didn't see any preparation to leave, he threatened to leave us behind.

So the fateful day came, we were bundled into a vehicle and came home. As I feared, home was harsh, difficult, unattractive and dull. To make the matters worse, Papa took ill on arrival. I knew him to be a strong, agile and healthy man. He was never sick or ill. He was hard-working and physically fit. The sickness grew worse. Within 3 months, papa kicked the bucket. We were thrown into prolonged grief. His death elicited many questions did he come home to die? Why didn't he stay longer? after all the people over there were not hostile. Was it because he came home to lay claim to some properties taken over by some miscreants? To me I faced a bleak future by my assessment. But the question haunting me till today is, did he come home to die?

Thank you for reading.

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