I left Nigeria on a day when dark clouds cluttered the sky over the Plateau, and the delicious smell of approaching rain hung in the thick air. I remember standing on the red dirt road in front of our house, waiting to board the van that was to take me across bush roads to our tiny international airport. I remember the scent of the mango tree, the soft prickle of heat on my skin, and the tremendous ache in my heart. I remember the fear. I remember desperately, silently choking back the tears that burned deep in my throat. And I remember the moment that I broke under their weight, for at that moment the heavy clouds gave way. The Plateau sky opened up and gently poured its aching over my skin. Clouds, dark and full released rain so gentle and so steady that I was quickly lost in it. The rain was strong arms slipping around me, pulling me close, calming my rage. My country was crying for me. And I let it. I didn’t run for the cover of a roof, click open an umbrella, or slip a hood over my head. I let it pour down and soak every inch of me until I shook with the weight of fabric soaked cold and the burden of my own tears. My hearts’ cry mixing with tears from heaven, sliding down my skin, dripping all my anger into the mud at my feet. I couldn’t bear to leave.
But I did.
Eighteen years have slipped by since that day, yet it visits me still. I was the middle child of career missionaries in Nigeria, West Africa, and a little town called Jos is where I spent most of my growing-up years. The red Harmattan dust, the smell of kosai and yams frying along the road, the sweet scent of an approaching thunderstorm, and streets bustling with dark, friendly faces are what was familiar to me. It permeated every piece of me, seeped into my skin and colored my vision. And yet, even here, I felt unsettled. No matter how dear to me was this place and these people—no matter how many afternoons I spent running barefoot through the red dirt, no matter how many guavas I ate right off the tree—I knew I could never be fully Nigerian. Somehow, I would always be bature: a visiting white face, with roots someplace else. Home, I was told, was back in the United States, where style was contemporary, stores were colossal, and the air was bitter with winter. But it didn’t feel like home. Not once in all the times we visited America did anything feel familiar. It was always changing, always alien, always frightening. I did not know this place. It was not mine.
Most of my childhood I spent trying desperately to figure out where I belonged: years of finding, losing, grieving… I still don’t know. That little cinderblock house in Jos was the only thing that ever made sense. It never really changed—it was constant—and I always felt safe within its walls. It didn’t matter where in the world we journeyed to, we always ended up back under that same tin roof. It was home, soaked with its scents and its memories. It was my hiding place from the world that confused and rejected me—on both sides of the ocean—again and again. The path I’ve traveled as a Third Culture Kid is strewn with the carcasses of goodbyes, but this…this was the hardest one yet. Leaving home meant leaving behind the only thing that had ever seemed right in my life. And I was terrified. I remember watching the puddles gather at my feet, the red mud growing thick, my tears dripping hard, and I remember wondering how long that profound ache would linger. How long would my heart remain here—under Plateau skies—after my feet would uproot from that driveway and walk away?
For years afterward, my memories of childhood in Nigeria continued to stir such deep sadness in every part of me, crippling my spirit and morphing into a silent anger towards everyone I met. I wandered through the busyness of college years pretending to have it all together. Pretending I knew who I was. Pretending the ache wasn’t there. Always pretending. Desperately wanting to completely belong. Somewhere. Anywhere.
It took me a long time to finally figure out that my memories of home are okay to carry around, and that being an uprooted, countryless TCK isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I spent so many years feeling isolated and angry and wishing I could have been someone else, that I missed one of the most beautiful things about being a TCK: there are SO many of us. All wandering. All worn from the heaviness of so many goodbyes. All confused and colorful with our mix of cultures and our refusing to blend in. My memories of home don’t need to cripple me, they make me solid. They are what stay with me, just under my skin, and color my present. They are mine. That moldy smell of elephant grass, the blue lizards with their orange heads sunning and nodding on concrete ledges, the swishing and clicking of mango tree branches in the soft, warm evening wind….
In Hausa they say “sha iska,” which literally means drink air. That phrase always stirs something cavernous and piercing in my spirit, something that cries out for belonging. Whoever you are, wherever you are, whether you feel you belong somewhere or not: DRINK the air. Don’t just exist, don’t just wander unnoticing through each day. Breathe deeply of life. Swallow each moment, savor it, keep it, for it will not linger long. Drink in the bursting laughter of your children, and the way the setting sun looks as it casts its glow on the dry, golden cornfields. The earthy scent of coffee brewing early in the morning, and the dizzying whirl of red and yellow leaves against October sky. Sha iska. Live fully. When my children curl up in my lap and I hold them close, when my husband silently curls his fingers through mine in a crowded room, when an old friend and I laugh about a shared experience back across the ocean…in those small, scattered moments I feel like I just might belong somewhere. Those sprinkled moments where I find I can truly drink of the air—I can sip deep from the uncomplicated loveliness of life, and all of my solitude and all of my uncertainty doesn’t matter anymore. I belong right there.
Sometimes I think back to that day I left home, and I wonder when it was that my heart finally slipped away from it. I like to think that I drank so fully of those moments that if I were to go back, my tears would no longer fall out of anger and confusion and fear, but out of gratitude…out of knowing that I had a good thing, I drank fully of it, and I would carry it always close—just under my skin—where it could color my today.
Drinking The Air 
This is the completion of your college poem, I think I always wondered if you’d continue it… 🙂
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I like this. Though I never really left the country, my family moved a lot from state to state and I can always relate to this. Some memories will always reach their cloudy hands to us and when we realise that we can’t really go back to childhood, we just close our eyes and “drink the air.”
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Beautifully written. Thanks for sharing your heart! My childhood memories of you are few and far between, but it was always exciting to see the Truxton family when you were in the states. I always wished we were able to connect more, so thanks for sharing your experiences this way. Love you, cousin! 🙂
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Thanks, Erin. Love you too!
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Beautifully written. Thanks for sharing your heart! My childhood memories of you are few and far between, but it was always exciting to see the Truxton family when you were in the states. I always wished we were able to connect more, so thanks for sharing your experiences this way. Love you, cousin! 🙂
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Dear Martha,
Thank you for sharing your heart. I cannot begin to feel the pain and loss that you have endured. I am praying for you right now as I type. I pray that God will fill you up with his love and use you and these words to minister to many others who may have similar feelings about leaving their homes. It is never easy to say goodbye to something or someone that you love. God bless you as you walk through life missing a place that was and is home to you.
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Reblogged this on mumupikin and commented:
One of those blog posts many people from travelling families can relate to.
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Beautiful, honest, transparent, and true, just like you my precious Sister! Loved reading this and remembering home… I love you sweet Martha!
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You read my mail dear. So many memories. Can’t wait to visit jos one day. Love ya sis!
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Martha,
I don’t think you would remember me but maybe my family, the Singers; also SIM missionaries. I was somewhere in elementary school when you left Nigeria and I remember, along with Marilyn Foute, idolizing you! I really appreciated your blog about finding a place to belong. I believe you gave me the exact words for my own pain. I don’t know if I’ve come to peace about it as you so beautifully expressed but I found comfort in someone else understanding. I think to some degree, there will always be apart of me that only comes alive in Nigeria. Thank you for your reflections.
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Lydia, I do remember your family, thanks for your honesty! I think there will always be a part of me that is never quite at peace either. I carry it with me. It’s always there…But there really IS strange comfort in knowing that somewhere–away across the globe–many kindred spirits are walking a similar path. Peace to you.
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Dear Martha, What a beautiful piece of writing! While I’m not a TCK, I feel deeply for your pain and sense of loss of home. Just seeing your beautiful words, and then the comments of Lydia and Pannan makes me, too, remember with fondness the sweetness of our Jos years. Along with Erin, Cate, and Meg, (and their sister, Pannan!) you are one of MY girls. Your proud missionary auntie, Sheryl
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Yes! The sweetness of our Jos years…Oh, to go back again and walk through those years with much more clarity. To drink fully of those days…I don’t think I really did. I guess that’s what made it so much harder to leave. Thanks, Aunt Sheryl.
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Beautiful and so well put! I’m a SIM MK from Burkina and this captured much of what I felt and still feel having left my African home. Thanks for sharing!
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Thank you for sharing, Martha! Your thoughts touch a chord in my heart, too. So many memories – some beautiful, some painful, some funny, some precious,… No matter where we live and drink deeply of the life we are blessed with, God goes with us, for which I have the most thanks. Bless you, wherever you are! Sha iska. 🙂 Ethel (Suk) Branderhorst
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Perfection!!!
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I landed on this from a post on FB. Great writing. Interesting note…your mother (I assume this is Dr. Truxton’s daughter?) delivered two of my three children in Jos. Great memories for me there. She was great!
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Yes, Dr. Truxton’s daughter. 🙂
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Hi Martha
My name is Meenu Kansal and we used to be classmates at Hillcrest in grade 1. I left in grade 3 for India but I never forgot you and some of our class. I lived in several countries and totally feel your post. I never felt like I belonged anywhere and yet I never forgot Jos. I remember every little crazy detail and still think of my time there every day. I think Africa does that to you. It’s special, and for us, as expats maybe unlike any other place.
I’d love to be in touch. My email is meenakshikansal@gmail.com. If you remember do contact me. Incidentally I remember Colleen, zaynab, raynah, Martin Bergman as well. If any one is reading this please feel free to get in touch.
Stay blessed.
Meenu
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Hey Martha, such strong and powerful words. Some of us are still in Jos and would love to have you visit sometime. Wonder if you remember me, we were in elementary school together and in the same grade. I remember when a missionary family left Nigeria finally…the Warkentins, I remember the day just like it was yesterday. I thought I could hold the tears but when Mr. Warkentin gave me a hug, I broke down and cried my heart out. I felt like I had lost my best friend Karlene Warkentin and her whole family. This is just to let you know that Jos, Nigeria and Nigerians miss you too. We appreciate the sacrifice you made coming to share our homeland and be part of our lives and sometimes deep inside we feel like a part of us is gone. We have accepted you as one of us and no matter your color you will always be Nigerian.
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Hannah, I remember that day, too. I remember crying as I watched out of the back window of our car as we drove away from the SIM office. That was a very painful goodbye!
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Your words are so sweet, Hannah… thank you. Absolutely, I remember.
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Wonderfully written! Next year will mark my 50th year in the desert, so to speak. I will forever be a Burkinabe away from home until some day when the need to taste the air overwhelms me. Blessings and peace upon you and all of us jumbled souls!
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Thanks for the beautiful words, Martha. I’m a Martha too, and found this post from a friend’s Facebook link. I moved a few times in my childhood and began my married life in Australia with my husband. Six years later, on our return to a new area of North America, I realized how alien the lush greens of spring were after the dear drab olive gum trees of Oz. I do find it tempting to isolate myself sometimes when feeling the loss of home and dear ones around, how necessary to pray about the creeping resentment of those whose world is familiar and intact. But the joys of discovering new friends and special places, the instant bonds that form with the many other uprooted folk… These are the bright side of the experience. And what makes it all worthwhile is the sure conviction that God brought you to this place in His wisdom, and will soon lead us Home to reconnect with all our Family the world over. And the knowledge that tears and chocolate are cathartic in the meantime!
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This captures many of my feelings of leaving home as well. I lived as an MK in Rwanda and Kenya for 16 years before moving to America for college. I love hearing other TCKs express themselves through writing. It seems like the biggest outlet we have, the best way we can connect to each other and our pasts. Thank you for blessing other TCKs with your writing!
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This is so well-said. I’m a SIM MK from Burkina, and my feelings about missing Burkina and belonging have been on my mind a lot lately. Saw this from a link on FB, too. Thank you!
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Oh wow. This is absolutely beautiful. One of the most moving pieces I’ve read on the TCK experience. Thank you so much writing it. I look forward to more!
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Hi Martha…beautifully said. You took me right back to Jos and I shared in your pain. There is something priceless and exquisite about this pain; a pain that, in spite of the TCK Re-Entry Seminars we ran at Niger Creek and KA with your class, persists and morphs as you say. Its now 17 years since we left Niger and returned to what is now my 4th culture. My girls are now 19 and 16; I’m 53 and… I’m still not “at home” either. However, as the years roll on I am finding that “my home” is actually a Pilgrimage and one that calls me to being Present in the flow of each “present” ..gift? 🙂 …in all the moments you so eloquently described. Love to you and thank you for this delicate gift. -Mike and Fiona
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Mike and Fiona, it’s been so many years! I’ve been very grateful for the time you (and so many others) invested to try and help us make sense of our wandering. I know at the time I didn’t appreciate it for the gift that it was, but I often poured over my journals from those days and found comfort in your words. Thank you.
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I grew up next door in northern Cameroun and we loved going to the Plateau and Jos during the hot season. Such a relief and beautiful! But, I never had thoughts like yours. I don’t know if our family connections in Cameroun and the US had anything to do with it. My parents were “lifers” also. I loved growing up In Africa in the 1950’s and some 1960’s. It helped, I’m sure, that I was able to return for 3 different visits, one for 4 months, mainly in the 1970’s. I do remember being jealous of those that got to live in Jos, however. Such an easy climate!! Thanks for your thoughts anyway. The Lord uses us all to help and encourage one another. I love talking about my childhood to anyone that asks. We are now fortunate enough to live in a small development that has Africans here from several countries. Some of them love the Lord and some don’t. If my parents could see the Bibles Studies of these people in their own language here in our neighborhood, they’d be Praising the Lord as I do!!
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Thank you for this wonderful expression that speaks for so many of us. I first went to Nigeria at the age of three, in 1960. We were evacuated from Umudike when the war started. We finally got to return in the later seventies, but the world there had changed, and I still dream of going to a home that time has moved beyond all our reach. May I have your permission to reblog your piece?
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Yes, you may certainly share it. I know we aren’t alone in our struggle to find home, and yet this long Road can feel so lonely. If my thoughts can encourage another fellow traveler, I’m happy to share them.
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Hi Martha,
Thank you for using your gift in writing to express your pain and the pain of so many others. I really needed to hear that message of drink air. Finding it a bit tough at the moment to just be and enjoy the time I have at ‘home’ before heading to Jos with SIM! I came across this link through the Garlands. God bless you, Emily
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Jos is beautiful! I hope you can soak in the beauty of the little things and the quiet moments at home…and carry them with you when you leave. Breathe deep of the Jos air for me!
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Thanks Martha. Will do. (sorry as I’ve just seen this!) 🙈
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Very well said, thanks. Those are great memories I have of you, Bill and your classmates. Often wonder what you are all doing. May you feel the love of God as you shine His love on those around you. Miss Nigeria too.
Always appreciated respected the help of your Mother.
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Thanks for writing this! I’m 14 years old and an MK living in Africa too. Presently I am in America for a furlough, but mostly I live in Nigeria, Jos too! We decided to stay in America for a year, and that was really hard leaving. Jos is a beautiful town with beautiful people. The Plateau has the best and most beautiful weather. I love the mango season, and suya, and staying for vacations at Miango Rest Home. Isn’t it a wonderful place? Being in America is hard because no one understands what it is like to move across the world. But reading your post by someone who lived in Jos, and knows all of the little things like loud rain on the metal roofs, and termite season, and locals saying Sanu, is encouraging. I’m glad to know that I am not alone. 🙂
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We live in the Mountain View compound. The house in the very back with all of the rocks. Do you remember it?
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Yes I do!
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I’m so happy this spoke to you! You are not alone. I’ve been learning through my years away from Nigeria that we are many–we who walk the earth yearning for a home we cannot have and may never find again. Keep your memories close, but know that you carry home with you, and you will find that new experiences and new memories will shape you too. The ache will dull, and you will be able to look back on your years in Jos as a beautiful piece of who you are. Nigeria just has a way of getting under your skin and into your lungs. You just can’t ever quite shake it. 🙂
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Martha. I have just stumbled across this blog. I have no words, only tears. Thank you from one of your estranged big sisters. I’m coming to find both you and Jenny, before the year runs out God willing. I love you, Ruthi
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Ruthi, oh how I have missed you!! I think of you often, and I know Jenny does too. All my love to you and your sweet boy ♥️
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