The Returnee: Lost in translation

So yeah. My life was officially over.

We were currently stuck in a massive, never-ending Lagos traffic jam, completely parked on the asphalt. To make matters worse, the dry Harmattan wind was on an absolute mission, literally trying to blast brownish dust directly into my eyeballs while covering our car in a thick layer of gritty silt. All around us, the streets were pure chaos. Those famous yellow tricycles—which everyone here callsKekes—were buzzing around our bumper like a swarm of angry hornets. They were aggressively cutting into seemingly impossible gaps, squeezing between side mirrors, and constantly blasting their annoying, high-pitched horns just to move an inch forward.

Welcome to Nigeria,

The words screamed at me from a massive, sun-bleached billboard looming over the highway. It had a picture of a smiling politician on it, but his face was half-hidden under layers of red dirt and peeling plastic. Outside, the air smelled like a weird mix of car exhaust, burning trash, and sweet, roasted roadside plantains. Hawkers weaving through the frozen road, balancing heavy crates of bottled water on their heads and shoving snacks right up against my window.

I slouched lower in the back seat, clutching my blue American passport like a shield.

“Avery, look! They have meat on sticks out there! Can we buy some?” My nine-year-old brother, Coby, was practically vibrating against the car door, his nose pressed flat against the glass. He was taking this whole ‘moving across the world’ thing way better than I was. To him, it was an adventure. To me, it felt like a nightmare.

In the front seat, Mom, Dad, and the driver were all arguing over which street to take. Trying to raise their voice over the loud music from the local radio station. The radio was buzzing with static, adding to the absolute headache of the whole moment.

Back home in California, I was just Avery. I was a normal 14 year old girl with an American accent, a predictable life, and a favorite Starbucks order. I missed the perfect tall palm trees, the cool ocean breeze, and the bright, clear West Coast sun already. Next month, I was supposed to be starting high school with my twin best friends Maya and Chloe. Instead, I was about to enter Senior Secondary School 1—SS1, as Mom kept calling it—here in Lagos, in a country I barely remembered.

Hi guys, I’m Avery. I was born right here in Nigeria fourteen years ago, but if you asked me anything about it, I wouldn’t be able to tell you a single thing. When I was just four years old, my parents packed up and moved us to California. I built my entire life there over the next ten years. I had my favorite spots, my school routine, and a group of best friends who knew everything about me.

Back in Cali, I was finally figuring out who I wanted to be. I was the girl who spent her weekends skating down the boardwalk, thrift-shopping for oversized graphic tees, and wasting my allowance on iced matcha lattes. My bedroom was my sanctuary, covered in fairy lights, Polaroid pictures of my friends, and posters of my favorite indie bands. My original plan for next month was to start high school, pick out my freshman outfits, and try out for the swimming team.

Everything changed when my parents decided it was time to “reconnect with our roots.” Now, I’m fourteen, and out of nowhere, I had to leave it all behind. My friends, my life, my bedroom, and everything I ever cared about—gone. All so we could come back to a country that feels completely alien to me. I was terrified of what came next, especially since Mom had already dropped hints about strict uniform rules at my new school. I was secretly panicking that they were going to make me cut off my carefully grown curls just to fit into SS1.

“Avery! Look! Is that a giant snail?”

I cracked one eye open. Sitting right next to me was my younger brother, Coby. He’s nine, completely energetic, and practically bouncing out of his seatbelt. He was currently pointing at a hawker carrying a plastic tub of God-knows-what on her head. Coby was treating this entire international move like a trip to Disneyland, completely oblivious to the fact that our old lives had just been totally erased.

Mom turned around from the passenger seat, her eyes sharp. “Amara, stop scowling. You are home now. Snap out of it.”

I didn’t argue. Arguing with Mom when she used my vernacular name was a losing battle. Instead, I just leaned my forehead against the glass, watching a hawker successfully hand Coby a small plastic bag of plantain chips through a tiny crack in the window.

After what felt like a million years of stop-and-go traffic, the driver finally swerved off the main highway and steered the car into a gated estate. The sudden quiet was almost shocking. The dusty, chaotic streets disappeared, replaced by smooth asphalt, trimmed palm trees, and massive concrete walls.

As I got down from the car, our new house was absolutely overwhelming. It didn’t look like a normal home; it looked like a literal fortress for a celebrity. The building was a massive, modern block of blinding white concrete and dark glass, surrounded by a towering black gate topped with razor wire. A uniformed security guard stood by the entrance, snapping into a sharp salute as my dad stepped out.

The air outside the car hit me like a warm, heavy blanket, thick with the smell of wet concrete and ocean salt from the nearby coast. Everything about this place screamed that my parents were ridiculously rich, but as I stood on the pristine driveway, looking up at the giant balcony that was supposed to be mine, it didn’t feel like home. It felt like a very luxurious, very beautiful prison.

I walked tiredly towards my massive bedroom, dragging my heavy suitcase across the gleaming floor. I had to unpack all my belongings and place everything where it belonged, but the room felt too big, too empty. As I unzipped my bag, I came across my Polaroid camera. Tucked right beneath it were all the pictures I had taken at my old home in California—smiling faces of my friends, beach bonfires, and my old bedroom. Looking at them, a lump formed in my throat. I swore I’d cherish them forever, no matter how far away Lagos tried to push my old life.

“Avery! Mom’s calling you!” Coby shouted from across the hallway, his footsteps booming against the walls.

“I’m coming!” I shouted back reluctantly, letting out a heavy sigh as I dropped a stack of t-shirts onto the bed.

Downstairs, Mom was already planning my transformation. She told me that I would have to get my hair braided in neat, fine box braids before school started. I froze. Back in Cali, I was so used to carrying my hair out in its natural, big curly state, so I didn’t really know what to say about the braiding. It felt like they were trying to change who I was, but since I would be starting school next month at Sky Academy, I knew the strict dress code left me with zero choice. To sweeten the deal, Mom also agreed to take me shopping for new school shoes, cute hair ruffles, and I even managed to convince her to get me a bunch of new skincare products to fight off the dry Harmattan air.

I knew... I just knew, life in Lagos was gonna be crazy